


Winter Sun

by anarchyarmin



Series: Skating Legion [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Another fine holiday cheeseball, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Awkward First Times, Bisexual Jean Kirstein, Bisexuality, Both Jean and Marco's points of view, Canadian Jean Kirstein, Car Sex, Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, Everyone is Vers, Falling In Love, Figure Skater Marco Bott, Hockey Player Jean Kirstein, Ice Skating, Italian Marco Bott, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Minor Mikasa Ackerman/Annie Leonhart, Oral Sex, Sacreligious Jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29107683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchyarmin/pseuds/anarchyarmin
Summary: "I don't know what to do with him," Jean said. "He's like if Buddy the Elf were a hot Italian guy. He will say literally anything to anyone, he drinks espresso like water, he sat on Santa's lap at the mall and asked for a win at US Nationals and a boyfriend, and then looked me right in the face."Reiner clapped Jean on the back. "Marry him," he said. "I'll officiate."**********Jean is a high-strung hockey player who goes all out, trying to escape his anxious mind; Marco is a charismatic ice dancer with a smile that could melt the ice. To Jean he seems too perfect, untouchable. But as they get to know each other, Jean realizes Marco’s life hasn’t been all sunshine and roses, and they have far more in common than he ever could have guessed.This is the JeanMarco side of my Eremin ice skating AU, Break my Fall!
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Series: Skating Legion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135700
Comments: 66
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing these two as a side pairing for Break my Fall that I wanted to give them their own fleshed-out story. In a lot of ways Marco was a comic relief character in that fic, but sometimes the people who are the most cheery on the surface are covering up unexpected stories and pain. I wanted to dive into his and Jean's backstories and all the in-between moments where their relationship developed and took off. So, this is that fic! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

Jean’s body ached with soreness after practice. He hadn’t been ready to add more weight to his lifts that week, but he’d done it anyway, to impress some nonexistent phantom. The strap of his hockey bag dug a little deeper than usual into his shoulder through his heavy black winter coat. He walked down the hallway of the iceplex toward the main doors; Eren’s shiny brown head was a few paces in front of him. 

“Hey, Jaeger. What’s your sister doing this weekend?” 

Eren turned around as if on cue, and it made Jean smirk. He knew there was no point in asking: Mikasa was as devoted to figure skating as the entire Trost Titans hockey team was to hockey. All of them, in one way or another, were slaves to the ice. Weekends were for training and sleep. 

Eren shot him a venomous look, but even that nasty jade-eyed glare from him was better than nothing, better than being ignored. Jean barely processed the words Eren said in retaliation, too distracted by Eren’s perfect face.

“If you come near her, I’ll rip your dick off,” Eren spat more than said. Jean held himself back from laughing. Eren went harder than anyone during practice, but it was clear now that he was tired too, his nerves frayed from drill after drill after drill. There was a tiny bit of darkness under Eren’s eyes, and it gave Jean a little thrill to see him taken down a notch, mortal like the rest of them.

“All right, let’s cool it on the ripping of dicks,” came a voice from behind him. Both of them stood up straight as their coach appeared. Erwin Smith was a terrifying man, less for his stern coaching style, more for his uncanny, catalog plastic good looks. He'd been drafted into the NHL, but had nearly lost his right arm in a car accident, and had to quit. He sent Jean and Eren off into the night and told them to get some rest. It was like receiving a benediction from a god. Eren cast one last harsh glance back in Jean’s direction, and Jean took it in, like a patch of desert grateful for acid rain.

Coach Smith was an enigma. Jean had looked up to him for years, but something new on the radar caught Jean’s attention: rumors that he was dating Mikasa’s figure skating coach, an equally enigmatic man with a panther-like demeanor. If it were true, it would mean Coach Smith was the only bisexual adult Jean had ever met, and it gave Jean a dash of hope. 

Jean waited by the front doors and watched Eren talk to Mikasa and her coach, Levi, from the corner of his eye. He’d always subtly hated Eren and Mikasa. They were impossibly beautiful, each of them in their own unique way, and athletic prodigies. Over his years of playing hockey, Jean pushed himself to his limits to keep up with Eren. The stinging in his muscles told him it would never end, not as long as Eren was around. To have had a shot at dating either of them would have been a holy grail; they were untouchable stars in their class. In a way, Jean figured it didn’t matter much who he pined after, or what his orientation was at the end of the day. It wasn’t like anyone wanted him back, anyways.

He felt a presence approach.

“Hey, do you need a ride?” Bertolt had an unusually soft voice for a guy as tall and muscular as he was. Jean found it disarming, even soothing. He liked it when people had unexpected features like that.

“Oh, no, I’m good, Claude’s picking me up,” Jean said. His two older brothers had just gotten home from college for their winter break that afternoon. Each of them had gone to McGill University in Montreal, like their parents had.

“Oh man, I haven’t seen Claude in ages,” Bertolt said. Claude Kirstein still held records for Trost Hockey, and Jean still secretly intended to break them. “I’ll wait with you if you want.”

“Thanks, man.” Jean tried not to smile too wide. Bertolt was one of the team captains, a laid back, popular guy. He had a beaky nose that Jean would never admit he liked; it made Bert seem more human and approachable. Even in the dead of winter, he was always tan, and Jean liked that, too. He had Eren’s complexion but without his caustic personality, and that wasn’t a bad combination. Bert and their other captain, Reiner, had been an item since Junior High, and Jean had no intention of interfering in that. But if Bert ever asked him to stick around in the locker room, he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity. 

Jean wondered if he were some hopeless pervert. He wondered if anyone ever looked at him the way he tried to avoid looking at his teammates and the girls in the figure skating club. He figured probably not. He’d gone from being a roly poly kid to a wraith on ice skates as a teenager, and was still relentless in the gym, trying to fill out. 

Bert cracked his neck and sighed. If the practice had been a lot even for Bert, then Jean knew it had been hard. “I tell you what, I can’t wait until Christmas,” he said.

“Yeah, me either. Your knee still giving you trouble?” Jean asked.

Bert closed his eyes and nodded. That didn’t bode well for one of their goalkeepers. “I’m gonna’ be glad to have a break.”

Jean heard soft footsteps next to them. Their friend Mina wore her dark hair slicked back in a tight bun. She pulled her rolling suitcase holding her skates behind her, her fluffy white coat zipped tight. She wore dark lipstick and eyeshadow that made her look like a porcelain doll. Jean would have asked her out months ago if not for a little enamel pin he’d spotted on her backpack: a spade with the gray and purple stripes of the asexual pride flag on it. He’d felt crestfallen at the time. But then, a space of levity opened up between them. If Mina was off the table as the kind of date Jean was looking for, that meant Jean had nothing to lose. She had an easygoing personality, and he liked being able to talk to her like the sister he’d never had. 

“You look pretty,” Bert said, giving her a little side hug. “What’s the occasion?” Jean envied Bert’s natural ease talking to girls.

“Photo night. We had new headshots done for US Figure Skating,” she said, smiling. She gave Jean a hug, too, and he tried not to react too visibly to the warmth of it. “Oh, that reminds me! Marco gets in tomorrow!” She took her phone from her pocket and started looking for a photo.

“Who’s Marco?” Jean asked.

“My new partner,” she said. 

“Oh my god, of course.” Jean looked up at the ceiling, embarrassed. “Who else would it be?”

Mina was an ice dancer whose previous partner was a few years older; he'd quit competing and left for college that fall. Mina tried working with a few other people since then, but none were promising. She showed Jean and Bert a webpage in Italian with a photo of a young man with a blinding white smile. He had dark, shining eyes, short brown hair, and dark freckles all over his skin.

“Holy shit,” Jean said.

“What?” Mina looked worried.

“He looks like a model,” Jean said. 

Bert and Mina laughed. “You two are going to be so cute, it’s disgusting,” Bert said. “I mean, Jean here is about to vomit, just look at him.”

“Shut up, Bert.” Jean hoisted his bag higher up on his shoulder and sighed. “So...you guys have met before, right?”

“Yeah, it was a couple years ago, at the Junior Universidae,” Mina said. “He wanted to come study in the US, so we thought we’d give it a shot.”

Jean nodded. “That’s awesome.” He spotted his dad’s dark green jeep in the driveway in front of the door. His oldest brother walked in, sporting a heavy reddish beard that Jean could never hope to grow. Claude caught up with Bert and Mina for a bit in English, then promptly switched to French once he and Jean got in the car.

«Tabernac, regarde-toi!» Claude slapped Jean on the back as he started the car. «You’re looking slick, Jean-bo! I didn’t realize you cut your hair! It looks good on you, man!» Claude had a hearty, manly laugh that Jean loved, but again, could never hope to imitate, not without sounding like a braying horse. 

Jean had shaved his hair short on the sides a few weeks before, but left it longer and a little wilder on the top, like a grown-out mohawk. He figured he’d had enough taunts of ‘horseface’ throughout his life, he might as well go for a full-on mane. No one at school seemed to notice or care, but Jean still secretly liked it. He thought it gave him something different from the other guys at least, and he liked the two-toned effect. It certainly felt better under his hockey helmet, anyway. And Claude’s reaction was heartening. Claude was the best-looking Kirstein brother, Jean thought; rugged and masculine, built for the Canadian snow.

They shot the breeze about hockey on their drive home; Claude’s Quebecois accent was stronger than ever. Jean rarely mentioned that he spoke French at home. His mother sent him and his brothers to immersion school when they were children, so they would have a native grasp of it. To Jean’s chagrin, this never impressed any of the cute girls in French class. But he liked having something else in common with his brothers. 

Jean was quiet at dinner. He let Claude and his middle brother, Marc, carry the conversation with their stories about school and life in Montreal. Jean was ravenous from practice, wolfing his food down distractedly. His mother beamed with happiness at having her whole brood under the same roof, but Jean felt like there was something heavy about him that threatened to bring the whole evening down. He helped his dad rinse plates and load the dishwasher, then went upstairs to his room instead of watching TV and playing cards with his brothers. His mom followed him up the stairs.

«Jean, what’s the matter, petit chou? Don’t you want dessert and hot chocolate?»

«It’s nothing, I’m just tired, that’s all. Coach killed us tonight.» And it was mostly true. That was the part he could put into words, anyways.

His mother gave him a smothering hug, and he let it sink into him. She embarrassed the hell out of him, but he still loved his mom. He was grateful for the hugs. It was painful to admit how much he needed them, how much he craved being touched. He felt like a beggar, secretly elated at the crumbs of affection he got from his friends. Mina had no idea how good it felt each time she pressed her slim little body up next to him, and Jean was afraid to ever tell her. 

Jean’s mom looked at him; her radar was good. «Are you sure you’re all right?»

«Yeah, I’m just beat, » he said. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and vanished into his room. He flicked on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. He pulled off his shirt and shook his hair out of his face.

The upstairs hallway was lined with framed photos, most of which Jean hated to look at. He resented seeing himself as a chubby child, even though he and his brothers had all grown out of it. He hated the lakeside photos from his early teens where he felt like a skeleton in a bathing suit. But worst of all were the photos of Marie-Christine, his sister who passed away as a child. A rare cancer swiftly took her from their family, and Jean felt like an ugly leftover, not quite the child his parents wanted. Claude was the hockey star, Marc was a wizard at all things technical, and Marie was an impeccable angel, incapable of ever letting anyone down. Jean wondered if they would have been friends, if she could maybe have taught him some secret: not just something that would help him relate to women and girls more easily, but something that would make his own self make sense. He wondered which of her brothers she would have been the most like. Jean felt cheated. He was supposed to have another person to love, to help him get through life, and she was gone. 

There was no point in going there now, he thought. But hard thoughts flocked together. On nights when something was bothering him, those thoughts magnetized everything else dark in his world together, for one big jamboree of anxiety. And what was he even upset about tonight? 

Jean looked at his body. He followed the workouts his coaches gave him religiously. The lamp overhead cast shadows that showed him his progress: it wasn’t all for naught. He even liked parts of his body now, he even thought his chest and arms were looking pretty good these days. He just wished someone else would like it. 

A few pieces of his hair fell in his face again as he brushed his teeth. Maybe Claude hadn’t been bullshitting him, maybe the haircut really did suit him. He had a long face, with a hard, sharp nose, but as he stepped back to look at himself again, he thought that maybe he was starting to grow into his features. As he fell asleep, he tried to imagine what it would be like to be admired, to be wanted in the way he was constantly wanting other people. The image of Mina’s new partner was fixed in his mind. What would it be like to be enough for someone like that?

Jean draped his forearm over his eyes. Marco had a goofy, boyish smile, but it belonged to a refined, balanced face, the kind you use to sell watches and cologne, Jean thought. His warm-up jacket obscured his body, but Jean had seen enough male figure skaters to guess what he looked like. 

_So his name is Marco, and he gets in tomorrow. From Italy._ Jean sighed heavily. He checked his phone to make sure his alarm was set. It was hardly past nine o’clock, and he already felt dead. _I’ll try not to be too much of a creep admiring him from a distance_ , Jean thought. As far as he was concerned, it was all he did anyways. 

❄

Marco sank down in his chair at the airport gate. The banks of leather seats at Amsterdam Schiphol were nice to look at, but impossible to get comfortable in. He propped his feet up on his carry-on suitcase. No, that was worse. Oh well. 

His eyes stung from being awake for too long. The layover was only supposed to be an hour. It had been nearly eight. His phone buzzed in his hand and he unlocked it. A text back from Armin. 

**_Yeah I’m still awake, you’re good. It’s not that late here yet._** Armin wrote. **_I thought your flight got in already?_**

Armin had been back in the US for a week, and just started training with his new coach for men’s singles. He and Marco had both taken a year-long break after Junior Worlds to tour in ice shows across East Asia. It seemed like a no-brainer to both of them: they’d get a year to keep training and conditioning, and the money they’d earn from performing would go a long way toward ice time and coaches’ fees as they ramped things back up for their senior debuts. 

Armin’s family lived close enough to Chicago that he flew straight in from Beijing. Marco went home to Turin first, to see his mom and the family he was still in touch with. 

**_No it is delayed again and again_** , Marco typed. **_How would you say that? I know that is not quite it._**

 _ **You would say it ‘keeps getting delayed’**_ , Armin wrote. 

Marco was frustrated with his English. He had no problem understanding his English-speaking friends. But certain turns of phrase eluded him, and he wanted his speech to be as fluid and smooth as his skating, as pleasant to listen to as his skating was to watch. 

**_Is it just the weather?_** Armin asked. _**It’s snowing like crazy here.** _

‘Like crazy.’ Marco liked that expression. He mentally bookmarked it. He looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the crew de-icing the planes’ wings. He loved the snow, he found it peaceful and magical. But at this odd hour of the night, he was thankful to be indoors in his warm coat, with a cup of hot tea from the kiosk nearby. 

Marco sent a string of snowflake emoji and sad faces to Armin. **_So many storms._**

Mina and his host brother, Franz, were supposed to pick him up at O’Hare that evening. Now they’d have to come at daybreak. In their group text, they insisted it was no problem, but Marco read their messages a few times just to be sure.

He made himself let it go. He was always trying to let go. Any time an anxious thought crossed his mind, he made himself hold it up to the light. _I’m not a magician, I can’t control the weather_ , he thought. _I don’t blame them if they’re upset with the situation, but surely they won’t be upset with me._

Across from him, a young couple struggled with their crying baby, whispering frenetically in a Slavic language. Marco thought of the Bulgarian coaches he was about to meet in Chicago: Petra and Oulo, some of the last Soviet Ice Dance champions. They’d started a new life in America and had a baby of their own the year before. 

“I am so sorry,” the mother said to him in English. 

Marco smiled and shook his head. “It's completely ok,” he said, imagining how Armin would have said it. The woman smiled faintly, and it made Marco feel lighter. 

Armin. Eloquent Armin. Armin always had words for everything. Marco pictured his friend, the cute singles skater with long, blonde hair. Armin wasn’t the only boy Marco had ever kissed, but he was the only person outside Marco’s family to tell him that they loved him. They spent a year with the Disney on Ice company, living under its straight-laced protocols. They’d made friends with the other skaters from city to city, but it was Armin that Marco relied on more than anyone. They discovered firsthand how badly they needed each other as friends, and how much they clashed as partners. 

Armin told Marco he loved him like a brother, and that was what Marco felt, too. It was bittersweet. Marco felt a total adoration for Armin, but there was something he needed that Armin couldn’t give him. If Armin were willing, once they met up again, Marco would have no hesitation to kiss him or hook up with him again. But it depended on what Armin wanted. And the thought of Armin with someone else didn’t make Marco feel jealous or possessive. In fact, he hoped they’d both meet someone new once they got to Chicago.

Looking at the photos of their friends in China and Korea who they weren't likely to see again for years was starting to make him feel sad. He opened Franz and Mina’s Facebook pages instead and looked at their photo albums. 

Chicago. 

Marco had never been to America, not even to compete. Soon he would cross a dark ocean in a metal capsule and emerge in this strange, extreme country he’d heard so much about. 

He ached to get back on the ice. His feet fidgeted in the new sneakers that his mother bought him as a gift. In his pocket, he ran his thumb over a jade rabbit keychain that Armin bought for him as a good luck charm. The ring was empty, and he found it odd that he wouldn’t need his house keys from Turin for a year again, maybe much longer. He had no key to his new home in Chicago with Franz’s family yet. 

He looked at his phone again. There was no chance of anything happening with Franz; he had a cute red-headed girlfriend, Hannah, who played hockey herself in the women's league. And as much as Marco wanted to meet more American boys, he was afraid to be indiscreet in his host family’s house. Then a Cheshire Cat grin spread across Marco’s face: Franz had a whole team of guys to introduce Marco to. He let his imagination run wild as he scrolled, hunting for the ones he thought were cute. He stopped on a photo of Franz, Hannah, and Mina with three other boys on a beach, all in swimsuits. Two were imposingly tall, one white-blonde, one Mediterranean-looking: their profiles declared them to be a couple, which made Marco smile. The other was a little leaner and had longish, messy hair that was tinted blonde from the sun and looked darker underneath. He had a long face with a sharp jaw and nose, and long, narrow eyes that looked almost gold in color from the bright light. His arm was draped casually around Mina’s shoulders, and even though he was smiling like the others, there was something a little bit forlorn to his expression. 

_Ooh, that one’s pretty._ Marco bit his lip and clicked on the tag. **_Jean Kirstein, 2 Mutual Friends: Mina Carolina and Franz Kefka._**

Marco looked through the handful of photos that were publicly visible of Jean. There weren’t many, and it made his heart sink. Most were team photos where Jean’s distinct face was small and hard to pick out; others were candids where he wasn’t looking directly at the camera. _Aw, is this all I get? Really?_ Marco pulled up a recent candid where Jean was clearly arguing with a teammate; they held their helmets under their arms, and Jean wore a look of cold fury toward a brown-haired boy whose face was red with rage. In his profile picture, he had shorter, spikier hair with a dark undercut, and was looking out over a sparkling Lake Michigan. 

Marco wondered if the lack of photos was on purpose or if it was just because of the privacy settings. He clicked ‘add friend.’ Anyone Mina was friends with, he’d meet eventually, so why not?

Marco was perplexed, curious why this angularly handsome boy seemed so aloof and withdrawn. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a nice smile, or a nice body. Marco looked at the beach photo again and grinned. Jean wasn’t as bulky as Franz and the others, but he still looked lean and hard from his traning. 

A voice came on over the intercom. “KLM Flight 2108 to Chicago O’Hare, now boarding First Class and Zone One.”

Marco messaged Armin, Mina, and Franz that he was finally leaving. He texted his mother goodbye one more time and gathered up his bags. 

It was a grace to lean his seat back. The cabin lights finally went off, and only the blue glow of little screens lit up the plane. There was no reason for anyone to fly with him; everyone was waiting for him in Chicago, but Marco didn’t particularly like traveling by himself. He folded up his heavy coat and wrapped his arms around it to help him fall asleep, wishing it were someone else he could cling to as he drifted off. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jean was more than a little bit sore when he got up. As he reached over to switch off his alarm, he felt a jolt of pain through his chest into his arm. Shit. So much for the workout he’d hoped to get in before class. 

He was the first in the house to wake up. He swiped some bagels from the kitchen and drove himself to school before he had a chance to speak to anyone. The gym was nearly empty except for a handful of his classmates, a few on the cardio machines, a few lifting weights or stretching. Jean knocked on the door of an office with large windows, where a blonde woman sat at her computer, checking emails. 

Jean’s coach, Mike, was married to a physical therapist who also worked for the school. Nanaba came from a small town in Quebec, not far from where Jean’s mom was from. She coached for the women’s hockey league that Hannah and a few of Jean’s other friends played in. She turned around and smiled, she took off her blue-light glasses.

«Jean? I wasn’t expecting to see you in so early, are you all right?»

In French, he could be candid about how badly he’d fucked up his previous workout. Jean lay like a ragdoll in a massage chair; he winced in pain as Nanaba worked out a dense knot in his right shoulder.

«I can tell you right now, your first problem isn’t that iffy bench press, it’s your hockey bag. You carry it on your right shoulder, yes?»

«Yeah, just out of habit.»

«Well, item number one is you need to start switching sides.»

Jean knew it was her job to give advice, but she still had such an effortless kindness, and he soaked it up like sunshine. He wasn’t going to stoop so low as to lie about being injured to earn a massage; she’d know he was faking it, and he’d never live it down. But if he had to be in physical pain, at least there was someone who knew what she was doing who could draw some of the tension out of his body.

She had him push his forearm against a door frame to stretch out the front of his chest. He grit his teeth, and she told him to slow down, to ease into it more.

«Take one more day before you do conditioning again, all right? This will heal just fine, but you have to let it rest first.»

Jean felt like an idiot. He knew it wasn’t urgent to get one more workout in, but he’d still wanted to. He grabbed a foam roller and stretched out, gasping through the trigger points in his back and legs. He went to the opposite side of the room, away from the girls, not wanting to be seen.

He pretended not to notice Eren and Mikasa walk in, Mikasa still in her warm-up suit from her early practice with Levi. She set her backpack and skate bag by the bleachers and dropped into a split next to Annie, who’d been sitting in a deep forward fold. When Annie sat up, Mikasa gave her a kiss on the cheek. Jean looked away. 

“Hey, will you spot for me?” Eren hovered over Jean, in a t-shirt and track pants. 

Jean let out a deep sigh and rolled his eyes. “Can’t you get one of them to do it?” He nodded toward the girls.

“Come on man, please?” Eren seemed out of sorts, his voice higher than usual. 

Jean groaned. “Alright, fine. Since you asked so _nicely_.” To Jean’s surprise, Eren reached down and pulled Jean to his feet. Jean was skeptical. Something was up. 

Eren loaded the bar, about fifteen pounds shy of where Jean was at comfortably, which brought him a shred of satisfaction. Jean told himself he was only going to watch Eren’s form, and not his body. But it was futile. Eren was a constant, cruel reminder that Jean liked boys every bit as much as girls, maybe more. Eren was brashly, openly gay; he didn’t care who knew it. But Jean couldn’t bring himself to come out. He felt an icy paralysis, like a hand gripping his neck, when he thought about it. He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t shake it off.

Jean ignored the twitch in his groin as Eren’s muscles tensed. “Watch your heels,” he said.

“What?” Eren adjusted his posture. The next few reps were smoother. Jean sighed and looked out the window, wishing for a break in the gray sky.

“When’d you cut your hair?” Eren asked as finished his set. 

Jean flinched, startled by the question. “Over Thanksgiving.”

Eren nodded as if in approval. He reached for a towel to wipe down the bench. “You want to go?”

Jean shook his head. “No, I have to wait.”

“What happened?” Eren’s eyes narrowed. He sat down to rest between sets. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not injured.” Jean massaged his shoulder. He wasn't sure which would betray his teammates more: not working hard enough, or going too hard and burning out. “I’m saving my good arm so I can bash Marcus’s face in next week.” 

Eren grinned, wily and foxlike. “That’s more like it.” Each of them had little vendettas against other players in the league.

Jean ran his hand through his hair. Since they weren’t alternating, he was just waiting for Eren between sets. He wished Eren had left him alone, but he seemed to be in a strangely good mood that morning.

“You coming to Reiner’s tonight?” Eren asked.

 _Why do you care?_ “I don’t know yet,” Jean said. “My brothers just got back, they’re going to want to watch the same game--”

“You should come,” Eren said. “Connie’s bringing drinks.”

Jean looked over toward the girls, then back at Eren.

“What?” Eren asked. “Don’t say it--”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Jean held his hand up and smiled. “I know your sister’s not going to be there.” Eren’s eyes widened. Jean laughed. “Jesus, man, you know I just give you a hard time about her because it’s funny, right?”

Eren rolled his eyes and slid back under the bar.

“Trust me, if I had a hot sister, I’d want to curb stomp any guy who got within ten feet of her. You’re ok,” Jean said. It wasn’t so different from how he felt about Mina. Eren seemed satisfied with that response. “Too bad she had to go team up with that witch, though.”

Eren groaned, his body melted into the bench. Mikasa and Annie were intimidating enough on their own. As a couple, they struck fear into the hearts of every boy. They were laughing at something on Mikasa’s phone screen.

“They’re gonna take the piss out of me all day, I can already tell,” Eren said. 

“Why, what’d you do?” Jean asked.

“You think they need a reason?” 

Jean chuckled. “Come on. What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Eren forced out another rep.

“Ok, who did you do?” Jean was enjoying this moment of power over Eren.

“Ugh. No one,” Eren said. 

“Aw, come on, don’t pretend to be friends with me and then walk it back like that, that ain’t fair,” Jean said.

Eren looked up at him, quizzical. “We are friends. Just because I think you’re a pain the ass doesn’t mean I’m not friends with you.”

 _Could have fooled me_ , Jean thought. 

Eren resumed his lifts. “Yeah, I can’t even look at anyone without them just harping on about it.”

“Well at least when you look at people, they look back,” Jean said.

Eren scowled. “The fuck are you talking about? You’re like stupid hot now.”

Jean’s sudden, high-pitched laughter echoed throughout the gym. The others all turned to look at him. For a second he stood like a deer in the headlights. 

Eren gripped the bar again, and Jean let the others’ gazes leave him. 

“Get her to set you up,” Jean said, looking at Mikasa.

“Oh no,” Eren said. “The two of them live to see me suffer. They want to watch me squirm.”

“Then next time get one of them to spot for you, they’ll love it,” Jean said.

“Hey!” Eren shouted. This time all eyes were on him, and Jean’s laughter was more relaxed. 

“Don’t sweat it man, you’re doing great.” Jean gazed out across the bleachers. “Hey, _I_ could be your wingman. ‘Meet my friend, El Diente. He’s very angry, very gay, and could probably kill you with his bare hands. You’re welcome.’”

Eren fumed silently. On game days, they wore jerseys to class with their nicknames on the back. Eren was rumored to have claimed so many players’ teeth over the years, he earned the moniker ‘El Diente’. Jean’s jersey read ‘Bad Horse.’ Neither of them truly knew the extent to which the others dreaded playing against the two of them.

“Mmm, great,” Eren said. “Gonna have them lined up out the door.” 

Jean was awestruck that anyone as good-looking as Eren could suffer the same way he did. Eren’s words about him being hot still reverberated through him. They sounded a gong of disbelief, shaking up every fiber of Jean’s being. 

“I call dibs on your leftovers,” Jean said. 

Eren’s wicked grin was back. “I mean, at least one of them has to be a cowboy, right?”

Jean wore a flat smile. “Hey, I wonder if any of the guys on the Stohess team are gay. You could give him his teeth back to him for Valentine’s Day.” Eren let out a faint spurt of laughter. “Hey, I know," Jean said, "Date idea: take your sticks to Pride and find the protestors. Whack-a-Homophobe.”

Eren sat up between sets again. “I’m going to post a sign on your locker that says ‘free pony rides.’”

“Don’t you fucking dare, I will drop this bar on you,” Jean said, laughing in spite of himself. He tried to think of the last time he’d made Eren laugh on purpose. It hurt a little to smile, to even think that Eren was flirting with him.

“Yeah, you probably wouldn’t get any takers anyway.” Eren took a sip from his water bottle.

 _Hey, what happened to me being ‘stupid hot’ just now? Or was that a joke, too?_ “Look, not just anybody can handle the ‘Thoroughbred of Sin,’ you know,” Jean said. “I might be desperate, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.” Jean pointed at Eren.

Eren held his hand up a little above his head. “You must be at least this tall to ride the ‘Thoroughbred of Sin,’” he said softly. “Actually, I’d say you’re a quarter horse at best."

“Eat a dick, Jaeger.”

Eren laughed. “Who even came up with that for you, anyway? Was it Connie?”

“Yeah, it was Connie.” Their teammate had howled with laughter on a bus trip to an away game, watching Dr. Horrible on his phone. 

“Oh shit, did you ever finish that poster?” Eren asked. He cracked his knuckles, getting ready for his last set. 

“Huh? Uh, yeah, just about.” Jean pulled his sketchbook from his backpack in the corner. A post-it note marked the page where his work-in-progress was, so there was no risk of showing the other pages by accident. Jean’s illustration showed a giant hand squeezing the life out of a cartoon bird. Connie was going to do the lettering: Tuesday, December 5: Trost Titans vs. Crystal Lake Eagles. 

Eren’s burst of snarky laughter was the best compliment Jean could have gotten. “Man, they have to let you use that. They have to.” He started his last set.

“Yeah, I hope so.” Jean sighed. 

Eren’s arms began to tremble more. Jean found it endearing. 

Trost High School was on the southern edge of the swanky, Gold Coast neighborhood, and while it drew students from all over the county, it wasn’t hard up for money. Making the Trost hockey team was a big deal, one that invoked envy and ire from players all over the state. Jean forgot about this at times, feeling like he lived in Eren’s shadow. It wasn’t until the summers when he played with new teammates that he realized just how much he’d improved, and just how unhinged Eren was on the ice. 

“Alright, take care of your arm,” Eren said as he wiped down the bench. “We can’t put you out to pasture until we beat Crystal Lake.” He walked over to the free weights. “See ya’.”

Jean gathered up his things. He had half an hour before his first class. Clusters of students sat on the bleachers, reading and looking at their phones. Jean set up camp by himself and took his sketchbook out again. He opened it up to a new page and did little ten- and twenty-second gesture drawings of the other students in the gym; one guy struggling through pull-ups, one huffing on the elliptical, a few girls stretching and talking by the water fountains. Drawing took his mind off things. He’d sketched for fun since he was a kid, but he rarely showed his drawings to anyone. Jean wanted to rinse his conversation with Eren out of his mind. His crush on Eren was so old that he often felt numb to it, but every now and then, Eren scraped it fresh and raw again. 

He took out his phone, out of habit, and was surprised to see a new friend request on Facebook. _**Marco Bodt, 3 Mutual Friends: Mina Carolina, Franz Kefka, Hannah Diamant.**_

 _Oh shit. This is Mina’s new guy. But why did he add me?_

In his profile picture, Marco wore an Italian flag around his shoulders and carried a bunch of flowers. Jean wondered how someone who looked so friendly could look so intimidating at the same time. 

_Did Mina just tell him to add a bunch of her friends?_ Jean wondered. _Maybe he clicked on me by accident._ Jean remembered Franz’s family hosted international students every year. Marco must have been staying with Franz.

Jean kept staring at the picture. The more he looked at it, the more human Marco seemed; he had a slightly upturned nose; large, round eyes; and clouds of translucent freckles all over, like a tan galaxy. _Guy looks like a Disney prince_ , Jean thought. _He better act like a prince to Mina, otherwise I’m gonna break his shins._ He started to put his phone away, but took it back out again.

There were already plenty of skaters at the iceplex who were out of his league, he thought. What’s one more? Guy, girl, does it matter? Why not have one more to gawk at? At least this one had a nice face to go with what threatened to be an intimidatingly nice body. 

If he was going to be skating with Mina, there would be no avoiding him. Mina came to the Trost hockey games all the time; there was no way Jean was going to just quit watching her skate. It was an unspoken promise among all their friends. As they’d all gotten driver’s licenses, they’d put together caravans for the big events: skating regionals, the women’s hockey tournament, the state playoffs. Banners and body paint were not out of the question, though it was a bit chilly to be shirtless in a hockey arena for long. 

_All right. Shit. Here goes nothing._ Jean accepted the request and clicked on ‘photos’.

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ _This guy is not real._ He couldn’t stop flicking through Marco's pictures.

There were plenty of podium photos, Marco standing next to some cute girl, both of them beaming and holding up medals. Professional shots where Marco and his partner looked to be levitating off the ice. Plenty of practice photos of Marco in tight shirts. Press photos with captions in Chinese and Korean. And then… _Man, this guy takes a lot of selfies._ Many of them featured a boy with blonde hair to his shoulders, another alarmingly attractive person who Jean would probably never risk talking to. 

There were beach pictures. Somewhere on a Croatian island, Marco looked like he was worshipping the sun. _Fuck me up_ , Jean thought. He clicked on the automatic translation for the caption: **_«I have decided that I do not have enough freckles!! So I am going to get more!! »_** Jean winced. Ice dancing couldn’t possibly require that much muscle on a guy, could it? Surely some of the training Marco was doing was just cosmetic, right? 

He scrolled back in time until Marco was too young for Jean to find him attractive. But the pictures of younger Marco gave him pause. He had the same smile, but he looked gangly and awkward, with big ears. _Damn. Time sure was kind to you._ _Well shit. Maybe there’s hope for me, yet._

Jean wondered if Marco had ever felt ugly. As in really and truly undesirable. But he stopped himself. This was someone who was coming to Chicago to train for international competitions. Jean was just trying to get through high school. What would they possibly have in common? 

Jean noticed the other students gathering their bags and looked at the time. He took his own, left shoulder this time, and sauntered off to first period chemistry with the image of the smiling boy in the sun emblazoned in his mind. 

❄

Marco stirred from his shallow sleep as his plane touched down in Chicago. He had a crick in his neck from gripping his coat all night. One day he’d get to wake up with someone’s head on his chest, feeling their warmth instead of just his own body heat reflected back to him. For now, he breathed the stale air and tried to stretch his legs. 

His phone came back to life and buzzed with messages. He told the others he’d arrived, but customs could be a long wait. He took a hot washcloth from the flight attendant and massaged his face with it; he couldn’t wait to brush his teeth. Still, there was something exhilarating about landing in a new place. Destiny had brought him to Chicago. Now was the time to build something that would last, to go from being a cute kid on skates to a true athlete. Time to live out the passion that consumed him. Item number one on his agenda that day was to give Mina a huge hug. 

He felt people looking at him as he waited in the aisle. By now he was used to it. He and Armin stuck out in Asia, but he’d learned long before not to take it personally when people were struck by his appearance. As a kid, people stared all the time; he was mercilessly teased for his freckles, and for wanting to hug and kiss everyone, girls and boys alike. By his childhood logic, there was nothing wrong with having skin, but something very wrong with telling another person that their skin was somehow wrong. As he got older, the nature of the stares changed. He’d grown to like his skin, and he’d grown to enjoy being looked at. After years of frustration, he learned to relinquish control. He had no say in what other people thought of him, so he let their gazes and their opinions wash over him. Virtually all of them would be wrong about most things in life, himself included. Marco decided that the sooner they all accepted that, the happier they’d be. The less of it he believed, the less it could hurt him.

He made eye contact with a woman who’d been staring at him. Her eyes darted back down to her phone. Marco chose to take it as a compliment. He felt the reviving bite of cold air as he walked through the jetway to the gate. He got out of the way of the other travelers and stopped next to a pillar, taking in the sight of the sunny atrium. 

The best thing about traveling was that everything was new. Every little detail caught his attention. The smell of the air, the odd mix of cleaning chemicals and Garrett Popcorn. The sound of the chatter, all in American English. Different channels on the TV screens, bizarre sports that no one cared about in Europe. So many of the men wore sneakers and baseball caps, which Marco found amusing. Most of what Marco knew about America, he’d seen in films, or heard from Armin. He took a deep breath and stood up straight. He hoisted his bag back onto his shoulder and followed the signs to customs. How strange to see signs in only one language. But this was no vacation. If Marco played his cards right, this would be home, for at least several years. He and Mina were determined to fly, to reach their potential. Their first practice would be that night. 

Marco passed by a young family, two men with their young daughter in a stroller. He smiled as he walked off. 

His visa documents and passport were ready. He’d rehearsed what he’d say a hundred times in his head. He knew there was no reason to be nervous, but his body liked to do that to him anyways, making him tense up and trip over his words. It wasn’t all that different from getting ready to perform, or to compete. He pulled out his phone to distract himself.

**_Jean Kirstein has accepted your friend request._ **

Marco’s face peeled into a big smile. He looked through the photos again. This time, there were about twice as many visible. He found an image of Jean with three of his teammates, all looking over their shoulders. They wore jerseys with odd names on them, Marco figured it was some kind of parody. Eren Jaeger, number 20: ‘El Diente.’ Jean Kirstein, number 11, ‘Bad Horse.’ (That made Marco chuckle, although he didn’t get the joke.) Bertolt Hoover, number 15, ‘Totoro.’ (Like the anime? Marco wondered.) Reiner Braun, number 18, ‘The Wall.’ (Does he like Pink Floyd?)

Marco discovered Jean had two brothers, also pretty, but not as pretty as Jean. _So, one is the husky one, one is the nerdy one, and Jean is the hot one_ , he thought. Marco noticed some of the comments were in French, and so were Jean’s replies. This made Marco smile even wider. He left likes on everything where Jean’s face or body was clearly visible, losing track of his surroundings until a customs agent snapped him out of his reverie.

“Sorry,” he said, hastily returning his phone to his pocket, gathering up his documents. 

The woman chuckled at him. “Somebody’s having a good morning,” she said.

Marco’s words escaped him. “Yes,” he finally blurted out, laughing. 

Her questions were scant. Marco’s visa spoke for him. She noticed the emblem on his warm-up jacket, a blue star with a silhouette of an ice skater. “You ice skate?” she asked. Marco nodded. 

Sure enough, he’d had no need to rehearse. He’d been wrong about that, too. But it didn't matter. Brains were just like that, making problems out of nothing. 

As he stood on the long escalator down to the baggage claim, however, he felt something grip at his heart.

He hoped he wouldn’t be wrong about Jean.


	3. Chapter 3

“I wish chemistry was just blowing stuff up and we got graded on how cool it looks,” Jean said. He held up a test tube and squinted at the crystals that were forming in it. 

“I’d take that class.” Bert took off his goggles and wiped out the fog with the edge of his sweatshirt. 

Jean put the test tube back in its holder and made a note on his report. The whole exercise felt so pointless. _When am I_ ever _going to need to know this?_

Mina snuck into the room and sat next to them, a half hour late. She folded her arms under her head and slumped forward onto the table. 

“Hey, are you ok?” Bert asked her.

She yawned and nodded. “Marco’s flight got delayed _nine_ hours. They kept pushing it back, so we didn’t know what time he was going to get here.”

“Wait, you went to the airport on your way here?” Jean asked.

“Well, yeah! Of course I did,” she said. “But now,” another yawn, “I’m so tired, I don’t know how I’m going to make it to practice tonight.”

“Take a nap at lunch,” Bert said. “I do it all the time.”

Mina stretched out. “I don’t think I have a choice at this point.”

Jean stopped himself from asking how Marco was, not wanting to look too eager. When the lab was over, he took his phone from his bag. He had dozens of missed notifications: Marco had gone through and liked a bunch of his photos an hour before. 

_What the hell?_ Jean scrolled through the list. _This has got to be a joke_. _Ok, this guy is just messing with me. This is weird._

He turned to ask Mina if this was the kind of thing he would do, but she’d already left for her next class. 

Jean looked at Marco’s profile again and stared at the image of Marco’s face as if it would reveal some secret about his personality. _Is he one of those obnoxious hot guys who likes to mess with people just because he can get away with it?_

Marco hadn’t added any more of Mina’s friends yet. She’d stayed up most of the night because she was that excited to see him. As long as Marco treated Mina well, Jean didn’t much care what he was like to anyone else. And Mina didn’t seem like she’d want to skate with someone overly arrogant, even though Jean knew the options were limited. 

_But if he wanted to get my attention, wouldn’t he have just liked a couple of recent photos?_ _Instead of_ thirty? _And some of these are kind of old, Jesus…_

_Do they just...not know how to do Facebook in Italy?_

Between Eren’s comments from that morning and Marco’s flood of likes, Jean felt singled out and on edge. 

Oh his way to lunch, he passed by a window and took a second to look at his reflection. He tried to imagine that the person he was seeing was someone else, someone he’d never seen before. He liked how his spikier-than-normal hair looked with his hard, pointed features, but he felt afraid of guessing wrong, living and acting like an attractive person only to have the carpet pulled out from underneath him somehow. He was sure someone would eventually prove he was kidding himself. 

Connie walked up next to him and looked at the window, too, bumping into his shoulder instead of saying hi. Both reflections grinned back at them.

“Food time,” Connie said. “Let’s go.”

Jean finally cracked as they walked down the crowded hall. “Hey, so...if someone liked every single photo of you on Facebook...what would you think about that person?” he asked. 

“Uh...guy or girl or neither?”

“Guy.”

“How old?” Connie asked.

“Our age. Or like a year older.”

Connie pressed his lips together. “I’d say that’s either a really thirsty dude, or a catfish. Why? Who liked your stuff?” He reached over to grab Jean’s phone.

Jean shoved it back in his pocket. “Just some random guy.”

Connie gave him a sly grin. “I don’t believe you,” he said in a little sing-song voice.

Jean rolled his eyes. “I just thought it was weird.”

“Somebody likes Jeaaaaan,” Connie taunted.

“You know what, it’s probably hackers,” Jean said. “Forget I mentioned it. The guy looks like a catfish anyway.”

Connie laughed. Jean tried to act nonchalant, but he was ready to shove Connie into a locker. 

  
  


❄

Marco heard a knock on his bedroom door. He’d been deeply asleep, dreaming of being outside somewhere, skating through a forest with a frozen floor. He felt the light through the trees…

Another knock. “Hey, Marco, you ready?”

He sat upright. It stung to open his eyes. Daylight was fading through the wide bay window that looked out over the snow-covered street below. The sky was turning lilac, the city lights to the south were beginning to flicker on. Marco’s body was heavy, begging for sleep.

“You ready to go?” Franz asked.

Marco forced himself to get up and open the door. “Hey. Sorry. What time is it?” His hair was sticking up from sleeping on his side.

“It’s only 4, we’re good,” Franz said, carrying his gear. “You ok, man?” 

“Ah...yeah,” Marco rubbed his face and blinked hard. “I think...my body is still in Italy.” 

Franz laughed. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Give it a few days, yeah?”

Marco nodded. “Give me just a minute.” He shut the door and rushed to change into skating clothes. He flattened his hair down with water from the sink (it took a few tries), brushed his teeth frantically, and threw on his white warm-up jacket. He took his heavy coat from a hook on the back of the door. His skate bag still had its long tape baggage claim tag around the handle. He could have kissed it when it came off the conveyor belt. 

Franz’s mother, Sade, worked for the international school downtown where Marco would start classes the next Monday. She worked from home that day so as not to leave Marco stranded at the house, but there had really been no need. All he’d done was take a shower and sleep like the dead. He still wasn’t fully awake when he shuffled into the kitchen.

“Marco, sweetheart, do you want anything to eat?” Sade leaned back in her desk chair and called into the kitchen. Marco loved her Nigerian accent. A thin gold chain hung from the ends of her glasses. The Kefkas’ fluffy gray cat, Rishi, sat by her feet. 

“I’m all right, it’s better if I wait,” he said. Skating on a full stomach rarely went well. 

The Kefkas’ living room had a very sparse, modern look to it, except for the tapestries and weavings on the walls that added bright jolts of color. 

“Hey Marco, think fast.” Franz threw a can of Red Bull to him, and he caught it just before it clattered to the floor.

“Oh, honey, no, don’t drink those, that will just make it worse,” Sade said. “You won’t be able to sleep at all.”

Marco looked at the silver can. “I think I will need an earthquake to keep me from sleeping tonight.” 

Franz opened his own can, clinked it against Marco’s, and took a sip. 

Sade looked skeptical. “Suit yourselves. Franz, see if Hannah and Mina want to go out for dinner tomorrow night, hm? We should go do something now that Marco’s in town.”

Marco’s face lit up. “I would like that so much!” Sade was a tiny bit startled at the force of Marco’s hug. 

Marco sipped the acrid soda on their short drive to the rink. The Kefkas’ stone townhouse was close to both schools, on the north end of Lincoln Park. Snow was falling in soft sheets. It blurred out the city around them and created orange halos around the streetlamps.

“So if you ever want to take the train to the rink, you can,” Franz said, nodding toward the Red Line station. "But I figured you probably didn’t want to carry your bag around in the snow tonight.”

Marco leaned back in his seat, his eyes shut against his will. “No, that is ok, we can be good to the environment some other time.”

Franz smiled. “You ready for tonight?”

“No, I am still exhausted!” Marco laughed. He held up the can. “This will not do shit.” He took another sip anyway. “But I think Mina will forgive me.”

“She’s so stoked you’re here, man. She had some real false starts after her last partner left. It was kind of a drag for a while, you know?”

“Yeah, I saw the videos,” Marco said. “But then, I knew I had to skate with her.” His wide smile came back. 

“Hey, do you want to come to this thing tonight at my friend Reiner’s?” Franz pulled up to a stoplight. The skyline was just barely visible against the purple clouds. “We’re just going to watch the Blackhawks game, but most of the guys will be there.”

Marco sighed. “I want to meet your friends so badly, but if I am awake four hours from now it will be a miracle,” he said. 

“No worries, man. You’re good.” Franz made a daring pull out from behind a CTA bus. 

Marco looked out the window. The sky seemed to be crushing the earth, a great gray palm pressing down onto the jagged rows of buildings. The cars all looked massive to him; the SUV Franz drove felt like a private bus. In spite of how tired he felt, Marco decided to stir the pot a little. 

“Your friend Jean,” Marco said. “What’s he like?”

“Jean?” Franz laughed a little. “Oh man. Jean’s a piece of work.”

“I don’t understand,” Marco said, smiling faintly.

“I mean, Jean’s, well...how do I put this.” Franz checked his mirror. “Actually, you know, Jean’s a really good guy. I’ve been on teams with him for a long time, and like, he can be kind of uptight,” he turned to Marco, “but the good thing about that is that he’s no slacker, you know what I mean? The guy trains like a maniac.” Franz changed lanes. He looked thoughtful. “He’s a pretty good artist, too. What he really is though,” Franz grinned, ”is a damn fine forward.” Franz shook his head. “Oh man...you’ll meet them soon enough. Eren, Jean, and Connie. They’re our starting forwards. Absolutely savage. I mean just fucking ferocious, man! People _hate_ playing against them.” Franz and Reiner were starting defenders, Bertolt was their starting goalkeeper. All the starters played on regional teams in the summer, usually together. “But you know, that’s something else about Jean, I don’t think he realizes how good he is. Like I think if he did, he wouldn’t be so tense all the time.”

Marco nodded. “Is he gay?”

Franz laughed out loud, then collected himself. “You know…damn. Good question. I don’t really know. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Kind of feel like it’s not really for me to say, though. I don’t want to tell you the wrong thing.” Franz did know. But he also knew how squeamish Jean was about it.

Marco had a happy look on his face. 

Franz gave him a sly glance. “What makes you ask?”

Marco shrugged. “Just curious.”

❄

When the hockey practice was over, Jean waited with his teammates in line to get cider and hot chocolate from the café. Friday nights were pandemonium at the rink, with practices and public sessions running late into the evening. At least three birthday parties were going on at the other end of the huge atrium; the glitchy noise from the arcade blended with the pop radio playing through the speakers above.

The freestyle session for the figure skaters was still happening on the rink just across from Jean and his crew. Marco and Mina were the only pair on the ice, surrounded by single skaters working on their treacherous jumps. The Bulgarian coaches demonstrated a series of lifts, and Marco and Mina replicated each one to the best of their ability. Jean watched Marco lift and twirl Mina about as if she weighed nothing. 

Jean sighed. It was so much easier to like girls than guys, not just because it was the social default, but because he could just admire them, he didn’t have to feel jealous of how they looked. 

A big group of skaters from the public session gathered around the window to watch the freestyle. Jean was far from the only person gawking, but he wondered how many people were looking specifically at Marco. His movements were so effortless that he looked weightless himself. He had a profound, dazzling control over his body, Jean thought; he also had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. His tight clothes left little to the imagination. Marco was even more terrifying in person than in his photos, and Jean hadn’t even gotten a chance to properly meet him yet. 

Jean never intended to trivialize Mina’s sexuality, but he didn’t understand it. At all. He was so constantly beset with sexual longing that he could barely imagine what it would feel like to be free of it, or to only feel that way after getting extremely close to someone. He would need the patience of a saint, the discipline of the Buddha, to do what Mina was doing and stay focused. She and Marco entered into an elaborate spin.

“ ‘I’m so tired’, she says. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to make it,’ she says.” Jean made air quotes as he talked. “Bullshit.”

Reiner laughed. “I’ve never picked up anyone on ice skates, but I’m gonna bet that trying not to get dropped will wake you _right_ up. Or trying not to drop somebody.”

“Oh yeah. That’s all adrenaline right there,” Franz said. “I mean, think of how psyched you were when you made the team freshman year, and you finally got to do the thing you’d been training for forever.”

“Shit, yeah. I didn’t sleep that night,” Jean said. He felt a flicker of nostalgia that made him happier for Mina. “You got a good point.”

“I asked Marco if he wanted to come tonight,” Franz said. “He said he did but ‘his body was still in Italy.’”

Jean was relieved. He was safe for one more day. 

Marco and Mina waited off to the side near the window to the rink, looking at something on Petra’s phone. In his photos, Marco looked like a model to Jean, but the absolutely maddening thing about him was that he clearly wasn’t one. When he wasn’t skating he had a happy, relaxed demeanor, not the untouchable frost of someone whose life revolved around their face. _All right, I’m thinking about this guy way too much._

In the corner, near the arcade, he spotted Eren talking to the blonde skater from Marco's photos. Sasha, Mikasa, and Annie were watching the two of them with wicked grins, and a smile crept onto Jean’s face, too. _Squirm, Jaeger, squirm. I’m gonna let them grill you like a shrimp, you cocky bastard._ He tried to keep from laughing as he noticed Eren’s awkward mannerisms. _Not so smooth now, are we, Jaeger Bomb?_

Reiner crossed his arms and looked at Jean, grinning. “What’s so funny?”

Jean glanced in Eren’s direction. “He looks like he’s about to piss himself talking to Prince Charming over there. Jesus.” 

Bertolt shrugged. “Haven’t we all been there?” 

Jean scowled. “Since when have you ever been nervous talking to anyone?” Franz, Marlowe, and Bert all looked at each other. “Seriously? Oh come on.” Jean unscrewed the top of his metal water bottle. He wasn’t thirsty, he just wanted something to do with his hands. He could see Marlowe being nervous; he was a pretty wacky looking guy, Jean thought, with a hooked nose and a weird bowl haircut. But Jean thought Franz had always been a stud; he’d gotten the best of his rugged Czech hockey star dad and his elegant model mom. Franz turned heads all the time, and had a cute girlfriend who loved his favorite sport as much as he did. Hannah was Jean’s first cousin on his mom’s side. Hockey was in their blood. 

_Shit. If someone as ugly as Marlowe can get a girlfriend as cute as Hitch, somebody out there has to go out with me. I mean, Connie’s not better looking than me, is he? And he’s got Sasha…_

Reiner laughed under his breath. He looked at Eren and shook his head. “Oh man. He’s got it so bad.”

“Reiner. Be nice,” Bert said. 

“I’m not gonna do anything,” Reiner said. “I’m just saying.”

Eren kept touching the back of his head and shifting his weight from one foot to another; he crossed and uncrossed his arms. It was the most visibly nervous Jean had ever seen him. He supposed Eren was being pretty obvious, but it still made Jean afraid that Reiner could smell his thirst for Marco the way a dog could smell fear. Jean had no desire to be in the awkward spotlight Eren was in. Reiner and Franz looked at each other for a second. Jean couldn’t explain why, but it gave him a bad feeling. 

They took their food and drinks over to a table that was even closer to the rink window. Jean split a giant pretzel with Bert. He looked over and realized Marco was looking at him while he had a mouth full of pretzel. Marco winked at him and turned back to his coaches. 

_What the shit?_ Jean started coughing. 

“Jean?” Bert grabbed his shoulder, but Jean waved him away.

“I’m fine,” he creaked. 

The freestyle skaters were starting to leave the ice. 

“All right, I’m gonna head on over and get stuff set up, you guys come by when you want,” Reiner said.

“I’ll come with you,” Jean sputtered, still coughing. He grabbed his bags, walked with Reiner to the parking lot, and didn’t look back.

❄

Most of the figure skating club at the Northpoint Iceplex were students at Trost, and most of them were thick as thieves with the hockey team. They didn't consider themselves a massive clique, but their classmates did. If you got up to train before school and bit the ice on the weekends, you were undoubtedly a member of the Skating Legion. 

The crowd at Reiner’s sat around talking and polishing off towers of pizza boxes once the game ended. Jean felt like shit for not saying bye to Mina before he left.

 _ **How’d it go tonight?** _ He texted her. **_Sorry I missed you._**

 _ **soooooo good!** _ She wrote back. **_and now I am soooooo tired lol_**

Jean felt a bubble of relief, but it didn’t last long. After about half of the others had left, it was Reiner and Bert’s inner circle sticking around. Reiner proposed his favorite game: gay Chicken. Annie and Sasha were the only girls left, and they cackled at the idea. They would referee, along with Reiner and Bert. 

"Oh god, do we have to?" Daz whined, leaning back into the couch.

"Come on man, don't back down from a challenge.” Franz said with a sinister smile. “Make Coach Smith proud.”

"Franz, you should have brought your host brother,” Annie said. “He'd be all over this.”

 _How would Annie know that?_ Jean wondered. _Did she meet him earlier?_ But that was confirmation for Jean that Marco was indeed as gay as he looked.

"All right, let's do this!” Connie clapped his hands together.

Jean found himself sitting very still. He knew Connie didn’t mean to make it hurt, but the fact that the game wasn’t going to matter to the others as much as it did to Jean still stung. To them it was a joke, Fear Factor light. For Jean it was the closest he ever got to any real action. 

"Hey, Connie. Put Daz out of his misery," Annie said. There was something bitter about Annie that pushed Jean away, even though he found her mysteriously pretty. At the same time, he could kind of respect it. She wasn’t excessively concerned with being liked. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake—" Daz scrambled to push Connie off of him while the others howled with laughter. 

"Who's next?" Connie stood with his hands on his hips, peering around the room for his next victim. Franz stood up without saying a word and grabbed his face. Connie recoiled, doubled over laughing. “Dude, you just violated my mouth.”

Franz crossed his arms and shrugged. He could be so smug, Jean thought. 

Jean noticed Eren was quiet, too. He stood in the corner, mixing a mini-bottle of Jack Daniels into his red solo cup of Coke. 

The last time they’d played, every bout lasted way longer than Jean expected. It left him convinced at least a few of the others weren’t nearly as straight as they claimed to be. Jean didn’t have to pretend to be into it with some of them. But he also sensed that they weren’t necessarily pretending, either. Tonight, though, he was feeling withdrawn and raw, agitated. He wasn’t eager to dive in. 

Sam and Thomas dropped like flies, but Franz and Marlowe were getting riled up, trying to outdo each other. Franz versus Marlowe hardly seemed fair: they both had girlfriends to practice on. Marlowe emerged victorious. He got as far as lifting up Boris's shirt before Boris finally caved. 

"Jaeger," Reiner said. "You're next."

"All right, fine." Eren seemed oddly sullen, Jean thought, like he just wanted to get things over with. Eren grabbed Marlowe’s shirt, then his hips. After a minute, the room went quiet with awkwardness. Marlowe finally pushed Eren away. Eren wore his foxlike smile, but it melted away when he realized only Jean was left.

"All right, Jean, you gotta defend your title," Reiner said.

"What?" Eren glared at Jean.

"Jean won last time. You were out of town," Annie said.

Eren looked Jean straight in the face, a green-eyed menace. Jean felt a contraction in his chest. He sensed they both wanted this and hated it at the same time. Then Eren surprised him by pushing him down onto the couch and straddling him. Jean was shocked at first, but then he wanted to laugh. Eren was hilariously obstinate, but Jean had a streak of stubbornness that kicked on even stronger when Eren was around. Jean decided to use the situation to his advantage. This would probably be the only time he would ever do this. He smugly accepted Eren’s angry tongue. 

Jean grabbed Eren’s waist and started sliding his hands up Eren’s shirt; Eren grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him harder in retaliation. All of Eren’s pent up frustration could come out now, Jean thought. Jean would just draw it out of him. Now that Jean knew Eren had the same mortal weakness, he could exploit it.

But then Eren slowed down. He leaned in closer, pressing his chest up to Jean’s; he started winding his fingers through Jean’s hair and gave it a little pull. He took deeper, slower breaths, kissing him like did so all the time, as if it were comforting and intoxicating. He took his time. Something cracked for Jean. It wasn’t a game in that moment. He felt a surge of pain through his body: how badly he wanted this alien ecstasy of holding another person, the feeling of Eren’s body in his hands. 

Jean felt a hand on his shoulder. "I'm calling it a draw," Bert said.

"What?" Eren pulled away and turned around, scowling.

"If you guys want to continue, there's a guest bedroom down the hall," Bert said.

Eren pushed himself off of Jean as if nothing happened. Jean crossed his arms and his legs, feeling suddenly exposed.

"Do us a favor," Reiner said. "Quit pretending you're not into dudes."

"We don't care," Franz said.

"Never have," Marlowe added.

Jean felt a numbness in his face and chest, a paralysis again. He didn’t like the expressions on his friends’ faces, a mix of amusement and pity. 

"Look, you know if anybody ever gave you shit about it, Reiner would shove a hockey stick up their ass, right?" Franz cracked open a mini-bottle of tequila. 

Jean felt a tightness in his throat. He still tasted whiskey and Coke. "I don't want to talk about this,” he said.

"Jean. We won't say anything if you don't want us to,” Bert said.

Jean stared at the floor. He felt the others’ eyes burning into him. He’d only ever talked about being interested in other guys with a few of them, in little fragments over time. Reiner and Bert knew; Connie, Eren, and Franz did. But no one else in the room seemed surprised. He took a deep breath. "How obvious is it?" he asked.

Reiner inhaled sharply through his teeth.

Connie walked over and clapped him on the back. "Anybody who can't already tell doesn't need to know."

Jean felt gripped by panic. What was he doing, saying, wearing to make it clear? Was he ruining his chances with girls without even knowing it? They’d all seemed so totally disinterested in him.

Eren stood on the opposite side of the room, sipping his drink. "You know, anybody that's going to judge for that was going to judge you anyways," he said.

"Oh, what, like you?" Jean glared at him.

"I'm never not judging you," Eren said with a shrug. “Just not for that.” He took a slice of cold pizza from the table and sat back down next to Connie. 

Jean wanted to say something back, to fire off something really savage, but Eren’s sudden candor caught him off guard. 

“Let’s play something else,” Sasha said delicately. 

Jean hunted through the duffle bag of tiny bottles that Connie brought. He picked out the last bottle of Bombay Sapphire and poured it into a glass of Sprite. He let the conversation in the room move on, he felt distant and checked out. 

_I always assumed girls didn’t like me because I looked like a fucking scarecrow up until last year, but now I look like a_ gay _scarecrow? What the shit? Actually wait...I thought guys didn’t like me for the same reason…_ Jean racked his brain in search of what he was doing wrong.

Bert was waiting in the hallway, away from the others, as Jean was on his way back from the bathroom. Jean assumed Bert was waiting to talk to him.

“What the fuck was all of that about in there?” Jean asked, his voice low. “Look, I know you and Reiner get off on watching us all go at it, but do you seriously have to call me out like that in front of everyone?”

Bert always had a slightly forlorn look on his face when he wasn’t on the ice. “Don’t come out if you don’t want to,” Bert said. “That’s not what this is about. Reiner just thinks...and I mean, honestly, I think this, too...if you don’t lie to yourself about it, you’ll be a lot happier.”

“Oh, trust me,” Jean said snidely, “I’m perfectly clear on who I’m attracted to, I just don’t need every last person to know it, thanks very much. Don't you think If talking about it was easy for me I’d have fucking done it by now?” He looked at the door to the living room. “Sorry I’m not at the point where this is all fun and games for me, I just,” he felt himself getting more and more worked up, “I don’t have your life, ok? I don’t have your parents, or your boyfriend, or--”

“Jean. Hey.” Bertolt wrapped his arms around Jean. “I just want you to know that as long as you’re with us, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Jean stood there for a minute, engulfed by Bertolt’s hug. He took a deep breath. For all his anger, there was something soothing about a warm hug. He sighed. “Uh...are you gonna let me go?”

Bert shook his head. “Not yet.” 

❄

Reiner followed Jean out to his car as he got ready to leave. It was getting close to midnight. Jean had two missed calls from his mother reminding him. 

"Dude, listen, sorry about earlier," Reiner said. 

Jean's body was aching for sleep from the long day and the shot of gin, but his heart felt sore as well, as though he’d been stepped on. "It's fine. Really. Don't worry about it." He started the car. 

"Ok, if you say so," Reiner said with a grin. "I'll give it a rest. But, I’m just saying...let me know if you ever want me to set you up."

Jean planted his forehead on the steering wheel. "I'm going home now." 

Reiner reached down and rubbed Jean’s back. "All right, man. Drive safe." 

Jean sat back up and watched as Reiner retreated into the house. There were some people for whom life just seemed to be easy. Reiner did all the same work Jean did, but somehow it all seemed to come to him naturally. _Well, maybe that’s because Reiner’s a stronger person than you are_ , Jean thought, _and if you could just toughen up, you’d figure it out._

Reiner wasn’t a boisterous guy, but he was confident. Jean wished he could experience even a drop of it. Everyone seemed to like Reiner, girls and guys alike. He just had a certain aura to him. _God...why can’t I just fucking relax?_

Jean opened his phone before he pulled out of the driveway. There was a new photo of Marco, from right after the end of the freestyle, to join the previous hundreds: a selfie with Franz’s mom’s fluffy gray cat standing on his shoulders, nuzzling his face. **_I have already made one friend, now I have to go make more!!_** the caption read, with a bunch of cat face and pawprint emoji. 

_Jesus...how can you be jet-lagged as fuck and still look like you’re in a goddamn cat food commercial?_

Jean looked at the comments. There were a few in Italian, then a photo reply of Armin, the blonde skater, with damp hair. A white cat was lying around his neck like a stole. He gave a thumbs up.

Marco had written a reply to Armin. **_See we are already doing really good!! And soon we will upgrade to boys_**

Jean’s forehead hit the steering wheel again. He looked up and clicked ‘like’ on the photo of Marco. 

He texted Reiner. **_Ok, I was wrong. Set me up._**

**_DON’T TELL ANYONE._ **


	4. Chapter 4

Marco waited until he got back to the Kefkas’ to shower so that Franz wouldn’t have to wait on him at the rink. Franz’s parents had the Blackhawks game on in the living room, they were splitting a bottle of wine and talking when Franz and Marco got in. Marco inhaled two plates of food and did his best to keep up with the conversation, but as soon as he was done eating, he dragged himself upstairs. The cat followed him into his room, demanding attention. He took a few photos with Rishi on his shoulders, standing in the light that he thought made him look the least tired. 

Marco looked at the result on the screen. “You look good, Rishi,” he said. He kissed the top of the cat’s head. “You are going to be an internet star.” Marco yawned, his body burned. “But that is enough photos for tonight, hm?” He set the cat outside his door and shut it, and peeled out of his clothes. 

In the shower, he slid down the wall and let the hot water wash over him. He felt his body unravel against the warm tile. In the space of nine days, he’d been on three different continents, and something in his nervous system was agitated and ragged. He worked a bar of soap through his hands and massaged his legs, silently thanking them for another day of working. He usually took much longer to stretch after practice. 

The first day had gone so well. Mina had not let up a day in her training since splitting with her old partner. She was like a little bird, unbothered by gravity. Marco sighed deeply. He shut his eyes, soaking in the heat. After all the Disney choreography, getting back into ice dance took him back to some of his happiest memories, going wild on the ice as a kid, cutting up with his best friend. Now it was time to turn the volume up on everything. A future was starting to take shape. He would pour everything he had into it. 

He was in America to skate, first and foremost. Nothing could get in the way of that. But it didn’t mean he didn’t want other things. To keep training and stay in shape. To perfect his English. A new family. More friends. A boyfriend. 

He would make it all happen, one way or another. 

_Franz, you need to introduce me to your American boys soon_ , Marco thought. _Once I am awake and not dying._

Franz was beautiful in an underwear model kind of way, Marco thought. Not someone Marco would turn down if given the chance, but not the type he sought out. His childhood crushes had all been bad boy types, the tattooed, leather-jacketed crowd, smoking in the cafes, hanging out in the record stores in his hometown. When Marco wasn’t living in a warm up suit, he went for more of a classic, preppy look. But during his time in Asia, he loved the Korean-influenced, androgynous style that was on the rise for more and more men; less so on himself, more on the guys around him.

Marco loved all kinds of music, but his favorite band of all time was a Swedish punk outfit called Paradis. As a kid, he listened to their first album so much that the disc cracked in half. They were known for their savagely snarky lyrics and their takedowns of social mores. But there was so much humor, sadness, and longing mixed in, Marco thought; the impression it left on him was deep. He knew every song by heart and he still thought of them at times when he needed to remember just how to say something in English. Their drummer and guitarist had gone full-on alien with body modifications and wildly colored hair, but their lead singer and bassist were more natural-looking, and Marco’s earliest fantasies were about the two of them, first together, then with him. Marco spent a great deal of time thinking about boys. He decided there was a kind of Paradis energy that captured something he wanted, and any time he sensed it, he lit up. 

Marco pictured the face Jean made through the rink window and laughed. He was distracted by Jean’s profile for a moment while he was listening to Petra; he didn’t realize the group of Franz’s friends had moved closer to the window. The longer pieces of Jean’s hair were still damp from the shower, and he’d swept them over to the side. Marco loved it. When Jean noticed Marco could see him, he looked completely mortified at being caught mid-bite. He spat out a little bit of pretzel and it hit his friend in the chest. Marco had never tried so hard not to laugh.

His hand drifted down to his cock and he gave it a few lazy strokes. 

Marco liked people with hard edges and soft centers. He’d never want to be with anyone who didn’t want him back, but somehow it was more fun if the other person was a little hesitant, if they clearly wanted him but didn’t want to admit it. Marco had some fun with Armin in their hotel showers on tour. Armin was reserved and discreet while they were in public, and a horny mess once they were alone. Marco tended to like taller guys, but he wasn't about to complain about their friends-with-benefits situation. Both of them had wanted practice, and not just skating. 

He pictured Jean kneeling in the shower in front of him, a little mental cut-and-paste from his beach photos. He imagined how he would tease him with his hands while he took him into his mouth. Hockey players had nice, muscular legs, didn’t they? He’d start by squeezing the inside of his thighs, then work his way up. If Jean was that shy about a wink through the window, he’d be hopeless having someone making puppy eyes at him while they gave him head. He wondered what Jean’s cock was like. Maybe it had a little bend in it. That would be exciting. 

He reached for the soap again to help himself out. 

Oh, it was so much fun to make a person melt. Marco wanted to bring Jean right to edge, then hold off; he’d do this a couple of times while he gradually worked into him with his fingers, then he’d have Jean straddle him…

Or maybe Jean would want to top. That could be fun. Armin hadn’t been into it, but Marco liked the idea of switching, and hadn’t had anyone to try it with.

Marco still had to figure out whether or not Jean was actually gay, but, well, whatever, they’d get there. Maybe he was gay and he didn’t know it yet. That could also be very interesting. You didn’t turn a person gay, you just showed them the truth, and then they would be free. _Don’t worry Jean. I will enlighten you!_

Marco squeezed his cock a little harder and pumped himself faster. He was determined, but he didn’t have a lot of energy left. He liked Jean’s face. He liked the thought of someone who could be cold and aggressive on the ice just falling apart, riding him, losing it. 

His body tensed up as he came, then suddenly, everything went numb and dark for a moment. Marco lay in the shower for a few minutes, half-awake, until he felt the water turning cooler. He forced himself to get up and dry off, he flung his clothes out of his suitcase hunting for pajamas. 

Marco knew full well there was no guarantee that Jean would be anything like he hoped, but it didn’t stop him from hoping. After all, anything could happen. Marco was nothing if not an optimist. That was his last thought before sleep claimed him.

  
  


❄

Marco woke up to the sound of loud meowing. _Maybe if I just lie here, he’ll go away_ , he thought. The cat did not go away, the meowing continued. Marco finally got up and opened the door for the cat, then flopped back down into bed. Rishi sat in the center of Marco’s chest. 

Marco laughed. “Cat...you are not who I want to cuddle with today!” He reached for his phone on the side table and took a photo looking up from slightly beneath the cat’s face that made him look like a behemoth. He put it on Snapchat: _look who woke me up!!_

He ran his hand over the cat’s fur while he scrolled through his morning social media circuit. His old partner, Laeticia, was studying in France and had posted some photos from a Christmas market with a new guy Marco didn’t recognize. Two of the older skaters from the local cast in Shenzhen had just gotten engaged. Marco decided to count it as a good omen. He saw that Jean had liked his photo with the cat on his shoulders and he beamed. _Oh wait, you can’t like it when someone else likes something of yours, haha, never mind!_

Marco sensed he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. It was still early, the sun was just barely coming up. He freed himself from the cat, put on a sweatshirt and slippers, and looked out the window. Fresh snow covered the street and lined the branches of all the trees, but the sky had turned totally clear overnight. For a moment, he stood there, simply taking in the silent perfection of the sky. There were times when everything went quiet for him, and there was no concern about anything, no chatter in his mind, just stillness. Everything felt different, completely alive, more real than real. He didn’t try to make those moments happen. But when they did, it felt like catching a star. 

He stretched his arms above his head and leaned back as far as he could, then pressed his palms to the floor. The cat nosed his face. Marco stood up slowly, letting his spine uncurl. He picked up the cat and walked downstairs.

He was the first one awake. The house was still, lit by the soft gray morning light filtering in. Marco poured himself a glass of water and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. He thought of the places he’d stayed; so many sterile chain hotels. At least this house had human touches. The handmade weavings, the rumpled hockey schedules on the refrigerator, the corkboard in the kitchen covered in postcards from all over the world from Franz’s other host siblings over the years. 

Marco heard footsteps. Stepan, Franz’s dad, was walking down the stairs in his heavy bathrobe and flannel pants.

“You’re up early,” he said.

Marco meant to say something about his entire sense of time being suspended and nonsensical, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, what came out was, “Ah, yes...Rishi wanted a kiss.”

Stepan laughed and looked down at the cat with his hands on his hips. “You should be very happy, you have a new chariot to carry you around the house.” He opened a cabinet. “Usually I’m the one he bothers in the mornings, because I,” he shook a plastic canister, “have the food.” The cat hopped up onto the counter and waited for his bowl to be filled. 

Stepan was a tall, broad man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick moustache and beard. In his face, Marco could see the precursor to Franz, but the way they spoke was so different. Stepan’s accent leaned in a British direction. Marco was aiming for something closer to Franz’s, maybe a middle ground between Franz and Armin. It had been so long since he’d seen his dad, he wondered how alike the two of them looked these days. Except for a few that he kept in a shoebox in his room in Turin, his mother had gotten rid of all of the photos. 

“We think we live here, but in this household, we are all just servants to Rishi,” Stepan said with a dry smile. The cat was a noisy eater. Stepan turned on the TV to a stream of a hockey game, announced in Russian. Nur Sultan versus Ufa. 

“This is the Kontinental League?” Marco asked. He took the armchair adjacent to where Stepan sat on the couch.

“My old stomping grounds,” Stepan said. 

Marco was confused.

“Just a figure of speech,” Stepan said. “Where I used to play. Of course back then, many, many years ago, it was still the ‘Soviet Superleague’.”

The Kefkas’ basement was a sort of hockey shrine. The long, singular room had a pool table and shadowboxed jerseys from Stepan’s stint with the Prague Lions. There were two trophy cases, but instead of one each for Franz and his father, they had mixed all their awards in together. Marco thought it was the best room in the house. 

Sade came downstairs in her floral dressing gown. She stood behind the couch and Stepan tilted his head up for a kiss. She gave Marco a hug. “I have a very important question,” she said sternly. Marco was concerned for a moment. “Who else wants coffee?” 

Marco’s eyes lit up. He pointed to himself. Marco hadn’t drank very much coffee in China. He’d picked up a taste for the wonderful palette of teas, but he still missed coffee. Coffee meant home. 

“I’ll wait until we eat,” Stepan said. “Once Franz comes down, we’ll make some breakfast for everyone,” he said to Marco.

Stepan had not been kidding about breakfast. He took out a massive cast iron skillet that felt out of place in the futuristic kitchen, and made an omelette the size of a pizza, stuffed with spinach, mushrooms, and cheese. They took their plates into the living room and sat around the low glass coffee table. The Russian commentators in the background were a kind of white noise while they ate and talked.

Marco already felt much more at ease with the Kefkas’ than he did at his mother’s apartment in Turin. He always thought of it as her house, first and foremost. In Marco’s mind, he lived at the rink, on the ice, on the road. Sade and Stepan represented a kind of dream for Marco; they’d both come from far away, learned beautiful English, found each other, and seemed to have found happiness. 

“Speaking of food,” Sade said, “did you decide where you want to eat tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, Hannah said there’s a new Ethiopian place in Boystown that looks really good,” Franz said. “Do you like Ethiopian food?” he asked Marco.

“Ah, yes, I think I’ve tried it just once? But it was very good,” Marco said. “Also, what is this ‘Boystown’?” He burned with curiosity.

“It’s the gay neighborhood,” Franz said.

“It’s a very nice neighborhood, for what it’s worth,” Sade added.

Franz held his hands up. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Marco laughed. As they were finishing up eating, he texted Armin.

**_Armin this city is SO GREAT  
_** **_There is a neighborhood called Boystown :D  
_ ** **_We have to go!!_ **

Armin’s reply came back as Marco was changing into skating clothes. **_What if we go and you get lost and then I never see you again?_**

 _ **Then you will know I died happy!!** _ Marco wrote. 

But now was the time to be alive. Fully and completely. To go and give everything. It was the only way Marco knew of to guarantee that one would die happy. 

❄

Jean said almost nothing during conditioning. On the weekends, his team used the fitness center at Northpoint instead of at the school. He walked in ten minutes late, and Mike gave him a concerned look.

“This is the first time you’ve been late to anything all season, are you all right?” Mike asked.

“I’m sorry. I just overslept,” Jean said.

“All right, well go spot for Jaeger.”

Eren had also come in late.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ At first he didn’t even want to look Eren in the face, but then he thought that would be giving him too much power. Jean ignored him as much as he could, still stinging from their encounter the night before. He gave one-word answers to Eren’s questions and dazed off in between. The upstairs fitness center looked out over two of the rinks on either side, and from the corner of his eye, Jean could see Marco and Mina working on synchronized spins. 

Jean noticed Eren looked irritable, huffing with frustration that didn’t seem to be from the workout. _Oh what, are you upset I don’t want to trade insults with you today? You miss the attention that bad?_

At the end of the session, on the way into the locker room, Eren scowled at him. “What is wrong with you?” he asked Jean. “Why are you being weird?”

Jean just glared back. “Fuck off, Jaeger.” He showered and left as quickly as he could. He told Connie and Franz he had plans with his brothers, which was technically true, but it wasn’t until that evening; they’d planned to cook dinner for everyone. Jean caught a glimpse of the back of Marco’s head as he left.

 _Jesus, what_ is _wrong with me?_ The sun was bright in Jean's face in the parking lot, salt crunched under his gym shoes. _Why can’t I even talk to him? All right, tomorrow. Tomorrow, I am going to talk to him. I am making myself talk to him. This is fucking ridiculous._

Jean started the car. _And what the hell am I even going to say to him? Ok, I can ask him about Italy. And ice dancing. And being in China. God, I don’t know, just ask about stuff he likes, how hard can it be?_

He hated the idea of ruining his chances with the girls at school, but what if those chances were zero anyways? Wouldn’t it be worth it for the right person, for someone really good? Reiner offered to set him up, who else did Reiner know if he blew it with Marco?

As he got closer to his house, a grim feeling crept over him. He’d never gone out with anyone. He’d gotten to be good friends with Mina, and his mom seemed so disappointed that Mina wasn’t actually his girlfriend. Claude and Marc had girlfriends in Montreal. Jean wondered if his family thought there was something wrong with him, if they were judging him. He’d never spoken to them about it.

❄

After an hour on the ice, they took a break. Marco strode proudly into the atrium, feeling full of light. Their rhythm dance for the season was a tango, something more passionate and mature than anything he’d gotten to skate before. He loved it. Mina was getting into it, too. He wondered how well it would suit her, since she had a sort of innocent, reserved demeanor. But there was something very compelling about how she was starting to skate it: a little initial hesitation giving way to full-on intensity. There was a natural story to it. This was going to be great. Mina was the best. 

Marco looked around the atrium for spiky, sandy blonde hair, but didn’t see it. His posture drooped a little.

He swiped through his phone in line at the café and let the stares land on him. He basked in it. He ordered himself some coffee and had to ask for a second cardboard sleeve in order to hold it. “This is so hot, it is going to be two days before I can drink this,” he said to Mina and Armin, rejoining their group at the tables in the corner. He set the drink down and immediately embraced a boy he recognized from Mina’s photos.

“So you are Eren!” he said, giving him the little air kisses that were completely normal in Europe, and strangely intimate in America. He could feel the embarrassment radiating off of Armin. That was not going to stop him.

“Uh, so, this is Marco, everybody,” Armin said, “who, uh, I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about.”

“You are Turkish?” Marco asked Eren. He looked like it. 

“Uh, yeah, my mom is,” Eren said. He looked strangely impressed.

Marco looked at Eren and Mikasa for a moment. “You and your brother look nothing alike except that you are both very pretty,” he said to her. She smiled back, but Eren was fidgety. Marco didn’t understand why people got so nervous and upset when he told them they were beautiful. He only said it if he meant it. But it made Armin recoil. Marco was discovering that this was his new favorite way to mess with people: give them a bold, sincere compliment. 

“You all recovered from last night?” Annie asked Eren. Marco had only briefly talked to her before, introduced by Mina. He sensed that she was less mean that she looked, but she had an aura of disdain.

“What happened?” Marco asked. Eren didn’t look sick or injured, just deeply uncomfortable at the question.

“Oh. Nothing. I tripped and fell,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Into Jean's lap,” Sasha said.

“Hey, guess what, I got community service credit for that,” Eren spat back at her. Sasha laughed into her hot chocolate.

Time to play dumb and get answers. “Who is Jean?” Marco asked. “He is French?”

“I think he’s from Canada,” Mina said. “His family is, anyways.”

“Yeah, well, he's a dick, wherever he comes from,” Eren said. “Look, if you see a guy in a Trost hockey jersey and it looks like he's wearing one of those rubber horse masks, but then it actually isn't a mask, it's his face, that's Jean.”

Marco kept himself from laughing.He found it endearing that this was such an obvious sore spot for Eren. Had they hooked up and Eren regretted it? 

“Wow,” Annie said. “Not even a real horse anymore. We've downgraded to fake horses.” 

Marco was curious. Eren was a good-looking guy; Armin had been looking at him nervously the entire time. He wondered why Eren and Jean hadn’t gotten together by now. 

“He’s a tool,” Eren said, rolling his eyes. He sighed. “So what brings you to Chicago?” Eren asked Marco. He seemed anxious to change the subject.

“This girl!” Marco put his arm around Mina’s shoulders.

“Oh, right. I forgot you do pairs,” Eren said to Mina.

“Ice dance,” she said.

“Shit. Sorry. Ice dance,” Eren said. He was struggling. Marco found it cute. 

“Ice dance is much more fun,” Marco said. He pulled Mina closer to him and winked at Eren. Then Petra waved at them from the café on her way back to the rink.

“Should we get back out there?” Mina asked. 

Marco nodded, then turned back to Eren. “Hey, you should introduce me to your horse friend! I love animals," he said, smiling wide. “And Canadians,” he added, glancing up at the ceiling at the realization. “They’re so friendly!” He walked off with Mina. He noticed Armin sink his face into his hand. 

  
  


❄

**_Nobody fucks with the Kirstein brothers_** , read the caption under the new photo that Marc tagged Jean in that night. Claude and Jean each held up crossed cooking knives in front of their faces, teeth bared jokingly.

 _That is ok, I am a daring man!_ Marco thought. He was the first one to like the photo. 

❄

The next day before practice, Jean slouched against the window to the east rink and propped his sketchbook up against his knees; he sat on one of the long, deep, carpeted benches in the atrium. Marc and Claude wanted to skate and use the fitness center, so he came to the rink early with them and was killing time. He’d given up on looking at a photo on his phone as a reference and started letting his drawing take on a life of its own. He was trying to do a pencil rendering of a woman with short hair holding a bird, but now it was taking a turn for the less literal. Maybe she’d get some wings, or some vines around her? Something to make it less of a copy, more of his own.

Something blocked out the light in front of him. He caught a whiff of expensive-smelling cologne. He looked up. Marco was looking at him with a huge smile. He wore a tight, dark gray shirt that showed off his shelf of pectoral muscle and the washboard underneath. It might as well have been a Batman costume, Jean thought. 

“Uh...hi,” Jean said. He felt completely paralyzed. 

Marco looked totally unfazed. “Hi, you are Jean, no?”

 _Whoa. He says my name right._ Everyone else pronounced it more like ‘John,’ with too hard of an ‘n’ at the end. “Yeah, uh, you’re Marco, right?” _Well who the hell else would he be? Jesus…_

But Marco just smiled wider hearing Jean say his name. “Yeah, Mina has told me a lot about you.”

Jean scrunched up his face. “Really?”

“Of course, she tells me a lot about her friends,” Marco said. There was such a lightness, a weightlessness to his voice and demeanor.

 _What would she have possibly said about me?_ Jean wondered. ‘ _Hey, throw some pity likes at my desperate friend?’_

“What are you drawing?” Marco asked.

Jean flinched. He was covering his sketchbook with his body. “Oh. Uh…”

“It’s ok, you don’t have to show it to me,” Marco said. 

“Oh, no, it’s fine, you can see it, uh...here.” He turned the sketchbook around, stood up, and showed it to Marco. Marco was taller than usual in his skates with their blade guards; Jean sensed that without them, Marco would still have an inch or so on him. Marco took the sketchbook from him and looked more closely at the page. Jean tried not to gasp as it left his hands. 

“Wow,” Marco said quietly. He studied the image for a moment. “This is really good.” His voice was completely sincere. “This took you a long time?” 

Marco had a heavy accent, Jean thought, but it had a way of making everything he said sound more innocent. He spoke quickly and didn’t search for words. 

“I’ve been working on it a couple days.” Jean shrugged. Marco started to turn the page. “Uh--”

“Oh. Sorry.” Marco handed the sketchbook back to him. “I won’t look.”

Jean noticed Marco had a snaggletooth; one of his upper canine teeth turned in just a little, making it look pointier. It was unnecessarily charming. 

“I cannot draw at all, so I am just really impressed,” Marco said.

He stood close enough to Jean that he could feel the heat coming from Marco’s body. _Is this just an Italian thing or does this guy, just, not get how personal space works?_

“Well, I mean, I can’t ice dance, so…”

“You know, a lot of hockey players make great ice dancers,” Marco said.

“Uh...yeah, not this hockey player,” Jean said. Marco laughed. _Holy shit, I made him laugh?_ “So, uh, do you just do ice dancing, or--”

“Oh, of course,” Marco said. "Why would I want to be out there by myself?" He laughed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don't know how my other skating friends do it. The ice is so empty, you know?”

“Well, yeah, I guess I’m only ever out there with like, twelve other guys,” Jean said. _Does he talk like this to everyone? Or just to me?_ He felt like Marco’s shiny brown eyes saw right through to his soul. He was so intense and so guileless at the same time. Jean started to relax a tiny bit, like Marco’s warmth was thawing him out. “So, uh, how are you liking Chicago so far?”

“Ah, you know, it is really early, but, ah, so far I think it’s really good. I like it a lot. I have never been to America before, you know?”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah, so it is...really different. But,” Marco shrugged. “I think I am going to like it here.” He glanced into the rink.

“So, you were in China before, right?” _Does that make me sound like a stalker?_ Technically, it was something Franz could have told him... 

“Yes, do you know Armin?” Marco asked.

“Uh, I haven’t met him yet,” Jean said.

“We were part of a big tour, for a year,” Marco said. “But now we are here, time to get serious!” He clapped his hands together. “And Armin is training with Levi, do you know him? So he is about to be very, very serious.”

“Oh, yeah, Levi’s a legend,” Jean said. “You know what they say about him here?”

“No, what is it?” 

Jean was not used to having someone’s total, undivided attention. He glanced around the room. “They say there’s actually no refrigeration here at all. They just have Levi walk into each rink once a day and it keeps the ice frozen.”

Marco laughed really loud that time. Jean felt so accomplished. For a moment he just stood, taking in Marco’s aura.

“Hey, so what is your phone number?” Marco asked. He took his phone from a side pocket on his very tight pants. “Do you want to hang out sometime?”

 _Wait wait wait that’s too many questions._ The bolt of tension through Jean’s spine was back. “You mean like with Mina, or--”

“Yeah, or like a date,” Marco said.

Jean felt his heartbeat in his throat. His armpits were soaked. 

“If you want to,” Marco added with a little shrug. 

“Uh, yeah, absolutely,” Jean said. _What am I saying?! Who is this person talking instead of me right now?!_ “Yeah, that’d be awesome. I’d...love that.”

“Ah, yeah?” Marco’s eyes were a little wider. He made a new contact for Jean.

“Oh, uh, my number’s seven seven three…” as he spoke he noticed Eren waiting with Franz, Bert, and Reiner in the corner the figure skaters usually claimed. Armin was there, talking to them. He couldn't tell if they'd been watching him and Marco. He figured they probably had. 

Marco put his phone away. Jean was amazed that anything could fit in his pockets at all. He smiled at Jean again. Jean had never met anyone his age who was so completely fearless about making and holding prolonged eye contact. Jean couldn’t look away, it was like a tractor beam, if tractor beams could be friendly.

Mina knocked on the glass behind him and Jean jolted as if the glass had broken. Marco laughed and put his hand on Jean’s shoulder; he’d seen Mina coming. 

“So, I have to go skate now,” Marco said, “but I will see you soon, yeah?” He put his hand on Jean’s other shoulder and gave him an air kiss on each cheek. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Jean said. 

Marco looked at him over his shoulder for a few seconds as he walked down to the door to the rink, near where the others were standing. Jean felt Marco taking him in, capturing his whole body with his eyes. Marco seemed to have his own gravitational pull; Jean noticed people turning to look at him as he walked past the café, his posture impeccably perfect, his gait effortless and fluid. Jean felt like a lumbering ape in comparison. Marco said something briefly to Eren and Reiner, then walked off to meet Mina. 

Jean stood frozen for a moment. _What the fuck just happened to me? He just...walked up and asked me for my number. And asked me to go on a date. As if it were the easiest thing in the world. Oh my god._

_Holy fuck I told a guy I’d go on a date with him._

Jean gathered up his backpack and his hockey bag, moving slowly, as if through water. The walk toward his group of friends on the other end of the room felt like a walk to the gallows.

_Holy shit, I’ve never had someone that beautiful stare at my face for that long._

Jean’s face was flushed and he was out of breath when he reached the others. 

“You all right, man?” Reiner clapped him on the back.

“Yeah. I’m good,” he said. “You guys ready?”

Reiner looked up at the clock. “Shit, yeah, we should get going soon.”

“Hey, Jean, have you met Armin?” Bert asked.

Jean shook his head. “Good to meet you, man. Marco said you guys performed together?”

“Yeah, we were in some shows and stuff,” Armin said, waving it off as if it were nothing. 

“Awesome.” Jean was still flustered. Then he noticed Eren looking at him with a territorial scowl. 

“What?” Jean asked.

“Nothing,” Eren said.

At that moment, Connie came in and greeted everyone in his jovial, bombastic way: hugs and secret handshakes. It took the attention off of Eren and Jean. Eren lagged behind, still talking to Armin, when Jean and the others walked off to the locker room.

Jean walked up to Reiner as they were changing into their gear. “So did you like, dare him to come talk to me?”

“Who, Marco?”

“Yeah. Or like, place a bet, or something?”

“What? No.” Reiner recoiled at the question. This was the first time Jean had ever seen him look genuinely hurt by something he’d said. “You asked me to set you up, so I did.”

“You told him to ask me out?” Jean asked.

Eren leaned in. “Wait, he asked you out?”

“Fuck off, Eren,” Jean said. 

“No,” Reiner said, “I was talking to Franz and Marco, and we saw you sitting by yourself doing your emo artist thing, and I said to Marco, ‘hey, I think my friend Jean is having a bad day, why don’t you go talk to him? I bet he’d really like that.’ I didn’t tell him to say anything.”

Jean groaned and rolled his eyes. 

“You sound gay when you do that,” Eren said.

Jean turned toward him. “I am going to break your fucking windpipe.” 

Reiner grabbed his shoulders and turned him around. “Jean, what has gotten into you, man? I’m not trying to play some trick on you, ok? Look, the guy literally asked Franz if you were into dudes the other night.” Reiner sighed. “I mean, fuck it, maybe he’s just out hunting dick, I don’t know. But he seems like a good guy, so just give him a shot, all right?”

“Oh, boo-hoo, hot new guy likes him, but Jean can’t take a hint,” Eren said.

Jean pushed Reiner’s hands off of him. “Will you two give me a break here? You’ve been telling me I look like a fucking horse my whole life, and now I’m supposed to just be like, ‘oh, yeah, no problem, I can get it.’ I mean, are you kidding me?”

Eren crossed his arms. “Look, man, just go for it, all right? He was eye-fucking you the entire time he was talking to you.”

“Hey, you know what, that goes for you too, Eren,” Jean said. “I’ve seen you all slack-jawed around his friend, you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

They exchanged glares. Jean never faced off with Eren except during scrimmages, but he felt the same adversarial energy now. The look on Eren’s face said ‘challenge accepted.’

“God, both of you need to get laid and calm the fuck down, it’s not even funny,” Reiner said.

“Tch. Says the guy who can get it whenever he wants,” Eren said.

“Ohhhkay,” Bert lumbered over in his goalkeeper’s gear. “Let’s all stop talking and go practice some nice, soothing, relaxing hockey. Ok?”

Jean finished changing without saying a word. Both of the coaches noticed that the practice was unusually aggressive that afternoon. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi has unexpected advice for Marco and Mina. Marco is really enthusiastic about texting, but Jean is still struggling with self-doubt.

_That went well!_ Marco thought. He was almost always smiling, but this time more so than usual. He would have to ask Franz and Reiner for some date ideas. Or maybe Jean could show him around Chicago, and take him to the places that he liked. That could be even better. Happy thoughts passed through Marco’s mind as he stroked around the rink, warming up. The cold air felt good on his face and arms. He was plenty warm internally from talking to Jean. 

Armin would tell him he was way too bold, you can't just walk up and say things to people like that. _Yes you can!_ It already made Armin cringe when Marco gave people air kisses; he'd learned to lay off on their tour except among their closest friends, but the Americans could handle it, Marco thought. You could always be bold if you were honest. Sure, it shook people up. But it got straight to the point, and some people needed to be shaken up. 

Petra put on the music for Marco and Mina's free dance, a balletic piano piece that started off a little somber but picked up, becoming more energetic as it went on. Then it shut off suddenly. Levi turned the stereo off. 

Levi wore a heavy, black parka made out of a tactical material that made him look more like he belonged to the Russian mafia than on the ice. He was part of a coaching team along with the Bulgarians and two coaches from Latvia named Gunter and Erd; an ex-Soviet contingent of old friends. Levi was the most severe of any of them. Marco wasn't usually one to temper his enthusiasm, but Levi had a piercing coldness that would make anyone shut up fast. 

"What are you doing?" Petra asked him. Her pastel green fleece made her hair look redder. 

"This is completely wrong," Levi said. He skated over to her; Marco, Mina, and Oulo joined them. Oulo had a flat, exasperated expression. 

"What are you talking about?" Petra asked. 

"Petia, this is a song for you and Lozhek here," Levi said. He had nicknames for everyone he worked with, and a heavy Russian accent. "It is completely wrong for the two of them." He nodded toward Marco and Mina. 

Petra scoffed and Oulo crossed his arms. 

"I am absolutely serious," Levi said. "If the two of you skated to this, it would be beautiful and perfect and everyone would be crying at the end. But if you give this to Marik and Minka it will be an absolute snooze. Yes, it will be good skating, but it will not have a story and it will not have any fire!" He shook his fist. 

There was a moment of silence, then Oulo said something to Levi in rapid-fire Russian. Marco didn't understand it, only that Oulo was pissed. 

"Oh, right, excuse me, yes, I've only been in this sport my _entire life_ and cheering for Petia since she was a tiny girl," Levi retorted in English so that Marco and Mina could clearly understand. "Lozhek, I am not messing with you here. I will even help you choreograph it myself!" Levi clamped his hand to his heart. "But you need to pick something different for these two. You are, what, how old?" Levi turned to Marco and Mina. "Seventeen, eighteen? Eighteen. OK, that is way too much energy for this music. You two skate together for ten more years and then you try this music. For now you must do something new."

Marco felt a little shaken up. He wasn't particularly attached to the music, he would skate his heart out to whatever he was given. But Levi's sudden surge of interest was putting everyone on edge. 

"You think you can put together something better?" Oulo asked, still livid. 

"It is like I told you. I am totally serious. I will help you with it," Levi said. "I will even coach him on how to smile less." He pointed at Marco. Marco laughed. "You see? We have a lot of work to do!" 

"And what did you have in mind instead?" Oulo asked. It sounded more like a threat than a question. 

Levi looked at Marco and Mina. "Well what do you want to skate to?" 

They looked at each other for a second. Marco wasn't used to being so nervous. "Ah, well, we were putting together an exhibition program…"

"Yes? Good. To what music?" Levi asked. 

"Uh…Bring Me to Life by Evanescence," Mina said. 

Marco felt as if the whole rink went silent. Levi clapped his hand over his mouth. 

"No," Oulo said. "No, we are not having them skate to that."

But Levi was actually grinning when he took his hand away. It would be one of the only times Marco would ever see him smile. "Think about it," he said. 

"Oh my god," Petra groaned. "Levi, this is not a joke."

"Do you think I am joking?" Levi asked her. "Do you think I don't want your skaters to win? Do you think I don't want them to crush the other teams until they are completely humiliated? Petia, do you know me at all?" 

He could be very passionate when he wanted to be, Marco thought. He put his arm around Mina's shoulders. He sensed they might be there for a while. 

"Petia, look, they are a brand new team. They need something that is fun. Something that people will remember," Levi said. "And you know what else? That song won at worlds for pairs some years ago. I am just saying."

"You are being completely ridiculous," Petra said. 

"Petia, why are you friends with me? You are friends with me because I tell you things you do not want to tell yourself," Levi said. He pointed at Oulo. "I was right about him, yes? Well, I am right about this."

"Levi--" Petra put her face in her hand. 

"Just think about it," Levi said. 

Oulo turned to the skaters. "Well, what do you think? Do you actually want to skate to this music?" 

Marco looked at Mina again. Both of them had wide eyes and tentative smiles. "I think, you know, it could be a really good program…" he said. 

"I mean, it's like, one of my favorite songs, so…" Mina fidgeted a little. 

"You know you are going to hate it by the end of the season," Oulo said. 

"Probably," Marco said. "But I think maybe it is worth it." From the excited smile on Mina's face, her mind was already made up. 

"Everyone likes Evanescence," Levi said, "they either admit it, or they don't."

Oulo cocked his head. "Do the judges like Evanescence, Levi?" 

Levi's trademark scowl was back. "No one is a harsher judge than me." He drifted backwards on his skates over to where Mikasa was stretching along the wall. 

Petra sighed. "All right. For now we are working on the rhythm dance."

Marco and Mina tried to keep straight faces as they rehearsed, but it was a challenge. Neither of them had seen the sudden change coming, and Marco was more curious than ever about how the season was going to unfold.

❄

Jean didn't exactly sit in the overstuffed armchair in the living room, he lay across it like a hammock, with his feet hanging off. He tried to read for homework, but the words turned to mush on the page. Claude and Marc sat on the couch across from him, playing Call of Duty. Jean wished he had the freedom to do something else. 

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and took it out. A text from Marco. **_Hey! What are you doing?_**

Jean felt his face get hot. What could he possibly say that wouldn’t make him seem unbearably boring? But the last time, Marco caught him off guard, and it had worked. Jean felt like a rambling idiot, and Marco still asked him out. He took a deep breath and decided to just start typing. 

**_Not much, t_ _rying to study but it’s not really working :/_ **

Marco answered him right away. _ **If you are busy I will talk to you some other time!!** _

**_No, it’s ok, I need a break!_ _Believe me, I would rather be talking to you_** , Jean wrote. He thought that sounded pretty good. Then he felt a little touch of panic. If he got in a pinch, he could just ask questions. That would work for at least a little while, right? 

Marco sent back a string of happy faces. Jean wasn’t sure anyone had ever been so excited to talk to him. _**How’d it go with Mina today?** _ He typed.

**_So great!!_ **   
**_She is such an amazing skater you know??_ **   
**_I did not come all the way to America for just anybody!!_ **

**_That’s awesome_** , Jean wrote. He couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to see someone who was wildly enthusiastic about what they what we’re doing in life. Maybe if he hung around Marco, some of that happiness would rub off on him. 

**_But we had to change our music for our long program_** , Marco wrote.

 ** _Yeah? What happened?_** Jean was starting to feel a little more at ease. 

**_Levi did not like it so he made us change it._ **

**_Levi? I thought you guys skated with Petra?_** Jean typed.

 _ **We do but Levi is like the president** , _Marco said.  
 ** _Everyone does what he says you know?_**  
 ** _He is such a strange man_**  
 ** _So small and so scary_**

Jean laughed. He liked that Marco typed in short bursts, as if he were talking. When he imagined the text in Marco’s voice, he liked it even more.  
 ** _Yeah I’ve met a lot of mean hockey players_**  
 ** _But Levi scares me even more. I don’t know why._**

At the apex of his career, Levi had clinched two World Championship titles, one for the Soviets, then a few years later, one for the new Russian Federation. He was well-known in the world of skating, but not such a celebrity that he was a household name. There was no risk of being mauled by onlookers at the rink.

 ** _I think it’s his eyes_** , Marco wrote.  
 ** _He is like a husky dog_ **  
**_That wants to kill you_**

Jean noticed something. **_Dude you just wrote me a haiku._**

**_Wow a poem!? even I think that is sort of amazing!!_ **   
**_Because my English is not that good_ **

**_What are you talking about? Your English is perfectly fine,_** Jean said.

**_That makes me really happy that you think that!!_ **   
**_But I still want it to be better._ **   
**_Will you tell me if I say something wrong?  
_ ** **_I don’t know I am just kind of worried about it._ **

Jean sensed he could talk normally to Marco; he didn’t feel a need to simplify anything. And now it seemed like Marco wouldn’t want him to. As long as Marco knew what ‘date’ meant, everything would be ok. Jean prayed Marco hadn’t gotten that part wrong. 

Claude looked up from his game. «Who are you texting over there?» He asked.

Jean froze; he tried not to change the expression on his face. If he said ‘no one,’ he’d never hear the end of it, they’d cajole him into telling them, or he’d have to make something up. He pretended not to hear them.

 ** _Well yeah of course I’ll let you know_** , Jean wrote.   
**_But I think you’re totally fine._** He started feeling a little more daring.   
**_But never lose your accent, it’s great._**

 **:D :D :D** was the reply. Jean felt like he was texting a puppy. It wasn’t the worst thing. 

«Jean, who are you texting?» Claude asked again. 

Maybe if he gave them a really out-of-left-field answer, they’d leave him alone. « I’m being seduced by a man from Italy, » he said without looking up.

Claude laughed, and from the corner of his eye, Jean saw the ‘what the fuck’ expression on Marc’s face. 

« Is he rich? » Claude asked.

« Loaded, » Jean said. 

« Right on, » Claude said. 

« Don’t put out right away, you have to make him work for it at least a little bit, all right? » Marc said.

Jean gave them a thumbs up and went back to texting Marco. He felt a momentary relief, but it also made him sad that he’d found no real way of gauging his family’s opinions on same-sex relationships. He avoided the topic with them since he had been avoiding it within himself. He knew that if it hadn’t been for Bert and Reiner, who were so well-liked, and so indisputably good at hockey, he would have had a much harder time coming to grips with his feelings. The two of them changed the tone of things so much just by existing. 

Jean searched for words. He pictured Reiner's face from the locker room. Reiner usually had a smug expression; Franz had a similar one. They would mess with him in an instant if they thought it would be funny, but would they actually set him up to be humiliated? 

_**So what are you guys skating to now?** _Jean asked. 

**_We are not completely decided yet  
_ _But I think it is going to be Bring Me to Life_ **

**_Wait  
_** _ **Seriously?** _ Jean had no idea if that was a joke and didn't want to guess wrong. 

**_Yeah it was going to be our exhibition  
_ _But Levi is really pushing it  
_ _Petra is not so into the idea but Levi says it is a song everyone secretly likes._ **

**_Damn_** , Jean said. **_That's true._**

_**So you like it too? :D** _ Marco asked. 

**_Don't tell anyone_** , Jean wrote. 

**_Don't worry!!  
_ _You can all confess how much you love it when Mina and I win at nationals next year!!_ **

Jean was not used to smiling this much, his face was beginning to feel sore. 

« So is this Italian guy a comedian or what? » Claude asked. 

« Sure is, » Jean said. 

Marc looked at Claude with a sly smile. « I don't think this is just some guy. »

Jean looked over at them. « I know this is really going to shock you, but I actually have friends now. »

« Uh-huh. 'Friends.' Sure. » Marc said. 

Jean sighed. « Yeah, you're right. He's just my dealer. »

This time it was Marc that laughed. Jean felt an ache in his chest at how badly he wanted to move past the friends stage with someone. 

On an uneasy whim, he texted Franz. **_Hey did Marco ask you about anyone else or was it just me?_** He knew his friends already thought he was pitiful. He might as well be pitiful and get some answers. 

Jean went back to texting Marco while he waited for Franz. 

_**What other music do you secretly like? :)** _ Marco asked. 

**_Secretly?  
_** _ **MCR forever** , _ Jean wrote.  
 _ **Also Lady Gaga**. _ He felt his body unwind a little. He was fighting himself less. 

_**I like them too but it's not a secret!!** _ Marco said. 

Jean wondered if Marco did have any secrets. **_OK well this is really classified information so I better make sure I can trust you with it._ **

**_Don't worry you are safe with me. ;)_ **

Jean had a lot of secrets. At least, he felt like he did. There were deep layers of his life that he never shared with anyone, and the thought of ever talking about them with someone seemed impossible. His sketchbook pages were filled with figure studies, male and female nudes, some from stock images that were meant to be drawing references, but more than a few from the handful of porn sites Jean trawled from time to time. 

The practice was good for him, and his art teachers remarked on his improvement. But drawing someone was also a way of touching an imaginary partner. If he couldn't physically hold them, he would study the light, shadows, and color, the quirks and unique features of each person's body. Jean was mesmerized by the human body, sexually and aesthetically. He was afraid he had an incorrigible vein of perversion that ran through him, but there were plenty of days when he was so awestruck by a face or so focused on the technique of drawing that he felt no sexual charge toward the model at all. When he read about famous artists who had been obsessed with their muses, he felt a little better about himself. But he still avoided drawing his friends. 

He chatted with Marco about music; they had some bands in common that they liked. They agreed the new Ash Saturday album was good, but Marco missed their older, progressive sound while Jean thought their experiments with electronics were spot-on. They were both still hoping Masquerade Massacre would get back together. Marco admitted that if he liked girls, he would have had a huge crush on the lead singer of Pyronica. Jean remembered she had a mohawk. 

_**Do you ever listen to Paradis?** _ Marco asked. 

But before Jean could write back, Franz's reply came in. 

**_Oh my god Jean  
_ _Yes he only asked me about you.  
I'm over here with him and Hannah and we're teaching him how to play pool and he is literally glued to his phone texting you when it's not his turn and smiling like he won the goddamn lottery.  
_ _You know sometimes I kind of worry about you man_ **

Jean just blinked a few times. This was either the cruelest prank his friends had ever come up with, or Marco, God knows why, was actually into him. 

_**OK thanks for letting me know** , _he wrote to Franz. 

Franz sent him a thumbs up. 

❄

Unbeknownst to Jean, Franz showed Marco and Hannah the first text Jean sent him. 

Marco's face fell. "He really thinks maybe I don't like him?" 

"He's not dumb, he's just insecure," Hannah said, taking a diet coke from the little fridge in the corner. She wore her red hair in long braids and a big cozy Montréal Canadiens sweatshirt that Franz got her as a gift. Marco thought the two of them were an adorably cute couple. He wanted to be half of a cute couple, too. He put some more chalk on the end of his cue. It vaguely reminded him of giving a blow job. 

"Jean was super shy as a kid," Hannah said. She watched Franz make his shot. "I guess he never really got over it."

"People think he's meaner than he is," Franz said. "They see him play hockey, and it's like, whoa, that guy's mean as hell, right? And then he's got this resting bitch face, and that ain't helping."

"Ah yes, I have heard of this!" Marco laughed. He liked Jean's severe expression precisely because he didn't believe it at all. Jean had to be like one of his beloved punks. Besides, he hadn't looked mean when he was drawing. He had a sort of distant, dreamy expression, and Marco liked that too. _I should ask him to draw me!_ Marco thought. 

It was his turn. He put his phone in his pocket. "I'm sorry I am on my phone so much, I know it's kind of rude," he said. He missed his shot by half an inch. 

"Dude," Franz said. "He needs this. Trust me. This is like, the best thing that's ever happened to him. Besides going to town on Eren the other night."

Marco sighed. "I wish I had been there." He looked up at the ceiling. "I would have won that game."

It still amazed Marco that Franz's team was on board with something like that. Franz was emphatic that most teams probably weren't, but Reiner was an influential guy, to say the least. The hockey players at the rink Marco skated at in Turin wanted nothing to do with him. They never harassed him, they simply ignored him. So Marco focused on his other friends instead. Nonetheless, he had a growing feeling of satisfaction, like conquering forbidden territory. He hadn't made a point of seeking out hockey players specifically, but if he bagged one, he'd consider it something of a trophy. 

The consensus was that Jean was bi, and Marco got a thrill out of the idea of being so magnetic that he could outshine the beautiful girls in Jean's life. Marco sensed that maybe he shouldn't feel that way, but he had to admit that he did. He was proud and he liked to win. He wondered what kind of girls Jean liked, what kind of guys. He assumed he fell into the latter camp, or was at least close enough. But he'd been harshly reminded before that his solid coating of freckles wasn't for everyone. 

Marco loved the idea of sleeping with a lot of guys. Or just one really good one. That sounded great, too. Variety was exciting, but it seemed like you got to choose between doing just a few things with a bunch of different people, or doing a bunch of different things with one person. There were moments here and there on the tour where Marco and Armin had felt adrift and bored. But they didn't get bored with each other. And Jean probably had a lot more stamina... 

Hannah picked up her cue and Marco took his phone back out. 

❄

Jean went back up to his room and managed to get his reading in, a few lines here and there, between texts from Marco. Jean reassured Marco he was way more interesting than Paradise Lost. At least the edition he had included a bunch of Gustav Doré engravings as illustrations. 

Marco was starting classes the following day at Shignanshina Academy, an elite international school downtown. Jean heaved a sigh. Anyone could go who had high enough test scores and could pay the tuition, but it tended to be diplomats' and celebrities' kids, and prodigies in need of custom schedules. Jean assumed Marco would fit right in. He also assumed Marco was bound to meet someone he liked better. He'd heard through the grapevine that the best drugs came through Shiganshina, but Jean was so petrified about the possibility of getting kicked off the hockey team that he didn't dare go near them. 

The school was known for harboring both geniuses and the unbearably entitled. Jean hoped it wouldn't ruin Marco's warm, open personality. 

**_Yeah Sade has warned me a little XD_** , Marco wrote.  
 ** _Since I will be at the rink so much it's more like I am only there for tutoring.  
_ _But I think I will be ok. I am really good at finding good people ;)_**

Marco's words were like an arrowhead. Jean knew it was meant for him, but he still had visions of their chat thread drying up, and some other gorgeous foreigner showing up in all of Marco's pictures. Eren would end up with Armin, and they would be disgustingly, unfairly cute. Mina would find the platonic romance of her dreams with some adorable person she felt right at home with. And Jean would be back to square one, just more embarrassed and bitter. 

Of course, Jean realized, there was always a chance Marco's better option would come along some other way. Facebook, Snapchat, and Instagram were all wide open channels for thirsty guys to find him. And it wasn't hard to fake your age for dating apps, although Jean was pretty sure Marco didn't need to. 

Jean would take what he could get and just hold onto it. Might as well practice. This might be the best he could do for a long time. 

It was Marco who signed off first. He and Mina had a 6 am practice slot. Annie and Mikasa would be training on the other rinks; the last was taken by the women's hockey club. Jean would try to get a workout in himself. Mornings were no joke in the Skating Legion. 

**_Hey I am really happy I talked to you!! Have a good night!! I will talk to you tomorrow!!_ **

Jean wondered if it was a convention in Italian to double exclamation points, kind of like the inverted question mark in Spanish, or if that was something that was unique to Marco. 

Marco sent him a kiss face emoji. Jean made a face like a dog that ate a bee. He was glad he was alone in his room. 

_**Yeah it was great to talk to you too!** _ He wrote. **_I'll see you tomorrow!_** And he hoped that conveyed just the right amount of excitement. Should he add anything? 

But Marco beat him to it with a string of happy faces. 

Jean put his phone down and collapsed onto his bed. He rubbed his eyes, they stung a little from looking at the screen. 

_Oh my god,_ Jean thought. _This guy. Are they all like this in Italy?_

He had a kind of bull-in-a-china-shop energy, except it was a friendly bull, the kind of bull who would let birds ride around on his horns and who would be friends with every animal in the barnyard. Jean liked that image. _Hey, that rhymes,_ he thought. _Marco le taureau._ Jean tended to think in a mixture of French and English.

More images swept through his mind. He remembered an exhibition he saw at the Art Institute when he was younger: Picasso's Bulls and Minotaurs. The galleries were full of bizarre male figures, men turning into animals, twisted up with other characters in abstracted tangles of limbs. It was erotic in a way that was wholly unexpected to Jean. Previously in life he'd been exposed over and over to plasticky images of one type of airbrushed woman; she was the holy grail of what the world told him he should want. The classical nymphs, dryads, and goddesses in the European galleries next door were of a totally different order, and Jean found them captivating as well, even more so. But the minotaur stood for a wild, untamable virility that was neither good nor evil. He was a force of nature that could flow through people and possess them. Jean felt it on the ice, in himself and other players. 

Jean found the images fascinating and terrifying at the same time. It was supposed to be an educational visit, but while the docent gave them a sanitized talk, Jean kept his mouth shut about what he was seeing: horniness personified. It was strange, gross, and mesmerizing. At the time, he didn't have words for this raw, wild force; he wanted to wield himself, but also be consumed by it. 

Something clicked for him during that visit, not just about his sexuality, but about his relationship to art. It was his secret lover, someone that would be there for him to work out all the demons in his mind. 

Why did Marco have to be so intimidatingly hot? 

Jean reached for his sketchbook. He still had some time before he needed to go to sleep. He opened his phone again and found his favorite image of Marco, on the Croatian beach. Jean took out a soft pencil and began with some simple gesture drawings. But as he kept looking at the image, his blood rushed to his groin. 

He couldn't quite articulate what he was doing. He felt a need to protect himself, he braced himself for failure. If Marco disappeared, then Jean would categorize him as one of his untouchable sketchbook people. 

But it was hard. Jean knew all the skaters trained their asses off, Marco was no exception. No, the drawing didn't need a bathing suit, that part could stay blank for now and Jean would fill it in later. But just looking at his body…no, it _was_ fair that he was in such good shape. Some things you had to work for. Jean drew the contour of Marco's body, he found the internal lines, and started shading the dark planes that established the muscles in his chest, his arms, his legs… 

Jean felt himself straining against his jeans. But the drawing needed a face. Jean shaded the ridge of Marco's eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. It seemed like he had really nice lips… 

This wasn't going to work. Jean unzipped his pants and reached for tissues from the night table. Jean was his mother's third son, she knew to keep plenty of tissue boxes in the house. 

Usually when Jean thought about girls, it was an imaginary future girlfriend; when he thought about guys, it was something clandestine and secret. If he saw someone androgynous who caught his interest, he pushed them into public and private categories as well. 

Most of his fantasies about guys were of the locker room type. He picked out men from videos he'd saved to his phone and put them all on an imaginary hockey team. He pictured the showers from the rink in Joliet where they went for regional tournaments in the summers. Sometimes he'd fuck some angry, lanky little bantam, not entirely unlike Eren, up against the wall. Other nights he'd get railed by a taciturn goalie; he liked the brutish Eastern European types who didn't say much. Then the next night he'd be in the women's locker room letting some hard bodybuilder girl have her way with him… 

So what about Marco? 

He seemed like a top from how he walked, but he had such a goofy demeanor, it was hard to say. _Maybe he's a degenerate who likes it all, like me. I mean, you can't spell versatile without 'vers.'_

Jean took his jeans and boxers off, then his shirt; he arched his hips up and slid one hand beneath him. With the other he gripped the base of his cock and felt his pulse. A few months before, he'd gone to a Walgreens pharmacy a train stop away from the rink to avoid being seen by anyone he knew, and bought himself an enema kit, condoms, and lube to experiment with. He'd worn a hat and a face mask and paid cash at the self-service checkout. Even though he knew he could lie about it, he didn't want the charge to show up on the credit card he used for gas and groceries. 

Jean fingered himself while he stroked his cock. He pictured Marco on top of him, sweaty and disheveled, his hair messed up, panting. He had such a perfect, polished appearance otherwise. No, time to ruin it. Make a mess. He could be one of those guys who had no idea how rough he was, no idea how heavy he was. An innocent bull. 

_Even if he ditched me later, I'd still fuck him._

Jean was used to the pain of wanting people, but not like this. 

As he pictured himself getting gored by Marco, the rest of the scene landed around him. He's drawing in a studio and Marco sneaks in. He doesn't let Jean wash his hands, so he has charcoal dust all over his body from where Jean grabs him, mixing with the sweat. The streaks of it are like war paint. There are some blankets over the dais where the figure model usually sits. Now they are covered in gray hand prints, and - - 

Jean winced as he came; he lay still for a minute, letting the drug-like rush through the base of his spine effervesce through him and then subside. The hot little pool on his abdomen turned sticky and cold. He stretched his cramped hands and cracked his knuckles, he threw his tissues away and rinsed off in the shower. In the mirror, he noticed how flushed his chest and back were. Maybe Marco would find that as charming as Jean found Marco's freckles... 

The freckles! The drawing didn't really look like Marco without them. Jean set his alarm and tapped in a few clouds of the faint spots with a hard pencil. The drawing was still just a study and needed finishing, but at least now it was an approximation of the right person. It was not a bad drawing so far, Jean thought. He closed the sketchbook and fastened it with the heavy, flat rubber band that kept it shut. 

_I want someone to see_ me _like this._ Jean turned off the light. _I want it to be him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got an outline for the rest of this fic, but as always I would love to know what you guys would like to see more of, what to focus on and 'zoom in' on, so to speak as the story progresses. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco beats Jean at arcade games and asks him out for coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have taken more time to edit this, but I just really wanted to go ahead and update. I was looking through Break my Fall to get my timeline straight for this fic, and I realized there are so many little errors and inconsistencies already...I'm just going to go with it. I'd forgotten what an absolute cartoon character Marco is in some of those scenes, though. Let's just pretend that's how Eren sees him and this time he gets to be a lot more human.

Jean noticed the status light on his phone blinking as he changed out of his workout clothes. There were already texts from Marco telling him good morning, asking him how he was. 

**_Not too bad_** , Jean answered. **_Just got done working out. But today is leg day so I'm going to be walking like a baby deer for the rest of the day._**

Marco found that hilarious, and it made Jean feel a glow from the inside. Marco didn't make any horse jokes, either. That was nice. 

He and Mina were confirmed on their free dance music. Petra and Oulo caved in to Levi's suggestion and they'd started working on some choreography that morning. Now they just needed something for their exhibition program, although it wasn't urgent. 

_**I'll let you know if I get any brilliant ideas**_ , Jean said. He realized he'd been standing with his shirt off for a good ten minutes chatting with Marco. He needed to get going. But he felt sucked into his phone. 

_**By the way I listened to Paradis on my drive this morning & while I was working out**_, Jean wrote. He hadn't heard of them until Marco suggested them. **_I like them so far._**

This prompted another flood of smiles from Marco. Jean was relieved that he actually liked the songs; he didn't have to pretend, or just flat out disagree. The background photo on the band's profile stuck out to him; he liked the look of one of the musicians, who had light, spiky hair kind of like his. Jean thought if he were a Pokémon, that guy would be his final evolution: someone brazenly confident, masculine but with an artsy, alternative bent. Someone who knew exactly how and when to be the minotaur. 

Jean was a little surprised that someone as cheerful and sunny as Marco loved a band with such scathing lyrics. He supposed they weren't necessarily cynical or cruel, just cutting. Jean wondered if it pointed to some hidden side of Marco that didn't often rise to the surface. He was curious; he found it compelling. There was one song in particular he'd put on repeat: _Antiphon_ , about hearing something so many times that it becomes meaningless, then suddenly being hit all at once by the gravity of it. 

Jean finished changing, stuffed his bags in his locker, and rushed to the computer lab to meet Reiner and Connie. He smelled the hot ink from the large-format printer. They'd gotten the ok on Jean's illustration the night before, and Connie rushed to finish up the posters for their game the following night. They were about halfway done printing when Jean came in. 

"These look sick, man," Reiner said. 

Jean picked up one of the tabloid sized pages. Seeing his drawing printed out with Connie's lettering made it so much easier to imagine that someone else had drawn it. When he saw it that way, he liked it so much better. 

In reality, they didn't need to advertise their games; there was always a good turnout. Trost hockey was an institution, and the team had been so good for so long, they'd become something for the rest of the school to rally around. The games were big social events. Still, the posters were good for morale. 

Jean snapped a photo and sent it to Marco. 

**_You drew this as well? It looks so good!!_ _:D_ **Marco said.   
**_And I want to come to your game!!  
I am going to skip practice for a little while that night ;) _**

Jean had no hope of wiping the grin off of his face.   
**_Oh yeah, you gotta see the Titans in action. It’s gonna be good._**

"Who are you texting?" Reiner asked him. He clearly knew. 

"You'll never guess," Jean said. He was starting to feel the warmth of being chosen. He felt a little adrenaline spike every time his phone buzzed. 

They divided and conquered on the posters. Reiner took the east side of the building, Jean took the west, and Connie took the gym and cafeteria. Jean tried not to look too visibly gleeful when he saw the other students' reactions to the drawing, but each time he noticed it making someone laugh or smile, he felt lit up from the inside. Between the chatter about the upcoming game and the jolts of attention from Marco, Jean was not used to feeling so injected with happiness. 

He wanted a huge crowd at the game. He wanted his frenemies on the other team to feel defeated before they even got on the ice, overwhelmed by the sea of green in the stands. And he wanted Marco to see him do the one thing in life he felt truly good at. Everything else was a wash, a string of little letdowns and failures. But not hockey. It was the only thing anyone respected him for, Jean thought. He wanted Marco to admire him for it, too. 

❄

Marco got on the crowded train with Sade. They got off at an elevated platform, then took a long escalator underground to change lines. Marco carried his skate bag with him so that he could take the train straight to the rink again after his classes were over. Between texting Jean, Marco watched the people around him, shuffling about in their heavy coats. Chicago contained a totally new slice of humanity for Marco to get to know, but there was something universal about restless morning commuters, he thought. 

They emerged from the Red Line station in front of a huge open square with a building that looked like a white stone castle, the Water Tower. Gold Christmas lights were strung through all the trees, and the cloudy morning was still dim enough for their glow to warm up the block. It was still too early for the hordes of holiday shoppers that would flood the street when Marco came back out for lunch, but the carriage drivers were already lined up and waiting with their horses, the charity bell ringers were already calling out to passers-by from the shop entrances. 

Marco and Sade walked a few more blocks past Michigan Avenue, to a gothic building with a large courtyard, a little cloistered bubble in the shadow of the hospital next door. Marco felt his heart sink. He had no desire to study, only to skate. He already liked to read in his free time, and he read as much as he could, especially in English, even when the words made his head spin. Couldn't he just do that? But Shiganshina was famous for its English program. And being able to say exactly what he meant, exactly what he felt, was just as important to him as skating like the masters he'd looked up to all his life. 

He gave Sade a hug and made his way to the small office where a half-dozen other students were waiting for their orientation. It wasn't uncommon for new students to start at odd times of the year, and Marco was glad it wasn't just him. 

_All right, here we are!_ He thought. Time to be alive. Time to give everything. 

❄

Jean barely got off of his phone between classes. By the time lunch came around, he was overwhelmed. When he spaced out in class, he was dreaming of being feared and adored as a ruthless hockey champion. But he also felt like he needed something to offset being seen as someone who dated guys. Jean wondered what the others would have thought of Bert and Reiner if they hadn't been such stars on the ice. They were so well-liked, but they also had something that everyone valued, and it seemed like they could get away with anything because of it. 

Jean looked at his phone in line to buy lunch. Marco's first day had been boring so far, a bunch of placement tests. 

**_Yeah it's kind of strange_** , Marco said.  
 ** _Some people are nice but for a lot of them it seems like they really don't want to be here.  
_ _Like I can kind of understand it.  
_** _ **I would rather be at the rink you know?**_  
 _ **But it's not like I'm angry I'm not there.** _

**_Well that kind of sucks_** , Jean typed.   
_**But there are a few cool people, yeah?**   
_He secretly hoped Marco wouldn't be too taken by anyone, and that he'd spend his energy on Jean and the rest of the Skating Legion. 

Marco told him all about Tamar from Israel who was training to be an Olympic fencer, and Simon from northern China who was stunned that Marco had even heard of his hometown, much less stayed there to perform at its ice arena. Jean was happy Marco wasn't totally on his own. But he hoped Simon wasn't too good looking, either. 

Jean sat down with his teammates at their usual table. His phone buzzed _again_. On the one hand, Jean was happy Marco wasn't bored with him, but on the other, did he _ever_ stop talking? 

This time it was a photo, a mirror selfie. Jean raised an eyebrow. Bert leaned over and looked at the screen. "Awww," he said. 

**_What do you think of my uniform?!? I like it so much! :D  
_** Marco wore the navy Shiganshina blazer with a small gold crest on the chest pocket, a crisp white shirt and dark red tie. 

"God, it's not fair," Jean said in a low voice to Bert. "He looks so good, and I feel like a gremlin who crawled out from underneath the clearance racks at Marshall's."

"It's ok,” Bert said, patting him on the back. “You're a hot gremlin now."

Jean just shook his head.   
**_You look like you walked out of the J.Crew catalog_** , he typed. 

Marco sent back another profusion of happy emoji. Jean put his phone back in his pocket. He needed to eat. 

"What's the matter?" Bert asked. 

"He just…keeps texting me," Jean says.

Eren sat across from them with Reiner. He rolled his eyes. "Tch. Like that's a problem."

Jean shrugged. "I don't know. He's got a whole new school full of rich exotic guys to terrorize--" 

"Yeah, and he keeps texting _you_ ," Eren said. 

Jean was taken aback by Eren's tone of voice. Eren tended to be snarky and backhanded, but this was more venomous than usual. _Wait a second_ , Jean thought. _No way…there's no way in hell_ Jaeger _is jealous of_ me _._

Was hell freezing over? 

"Jean," Bert said, "have you thought that maybe he has a type? And maybe that type is you?" 

Jean sighed. He wasn't used to getting things he wanted, unless it was busting his ass to win at hockey. He couldn't help but feel skeptical and strange. He noticed Eren looking at him with a disgusted expression. “What?" Jean asked him. 

"Nothing," Eren said, still terse and defensive. 

Jean scowled at him. "I don't get what you're so upset about, don't you have miniature Legolas to go drool over?" 

Eren gathered up his stuff to leave. "Would you get your head out of your ass already?" he glared straight at Jean, then looked him up and down. "Marco isn’t fucking blind, you know." 

Jean was silent for a moment as Eren walked off. 

❄

As it turned out, miniature Legolas was the person whose advice Jean needed the most. Jean got to the rink a few minutes early that afternoon. He spotted Armin taking a break outside the west rink, waiting for a nuclear cup of tea to cool off. Jean walked up to him. At first it looked like he was wearing a Trost sweatshirt, but then Jean realized it was just the same color green, with something written in Chinese on the back, underneath an emblem that looked like black and white wings. Without the others around to distract him, he realized why Eren had been nervous to talk to him. He could also tell why Armin did men’s singles instead of pairs or dance; he wasn’t gangly, but he was way lighter than Marco, and had the same slightly ansty, spring-loaded look that Jean noticed in Levi and Mikasa. 

“Hey, Armin, you’re really good friends with Marco, right?” Jean lay his bags on the ground and sat down a polite distance apart from him on the bench. 

“Hm? Yeah, why? What’s up?” Armin wasn’t dismissive, but there was something aloof about him.

“Uh,” Jean laughed nervously, “Shit, what was I even going to ask you?” He suddenly felt like an idiot next to ultra-composed Armin. “Anyways, uh, I think I got about a hundred text messages from him today,” he said, “so I was just wondering--”

“Oh my god,” Armin sighed. His flat, embarrassed expression suggested this was not the first time Marco had done this. “I’m sorry, he’s just--”

“No, it’s not your fault--”

“No, he’s just... _like that_ ,” Armin said defeatedly, waving his hand in the air. Then he looked at Jean with a much softer expression. “When he gets excited about something...or, ok, in your case, _someone_ , he just goes on and on...I mean, he probably texted me a dozen times today, too, and most of them were about you.” 

“Really?” Jean asked. _When?_

Armin nodded. “Yeah...you know, for what it’s worth, he’s been like this about skating since he was, like, five, so I think this is just...how he is.” He turned his palms up. “I mean, he’s one of my best friends. But he’s a really intense guy. Just totally full-on about everything. He’s great, but he’s like...a fire hose,” Armin said.

Jean laughed. Armin’s admission made him feel a little better. “That’s...yeah, ok, that makes more sense,” Jean said. 

Armin looked at the floor for a second; he seemed concerned. “You know...hm, I don’t know if this is breaking confidence saying this but, all right, well, I’m just going to tell you anyways, it’ll probably be pretty obvious either way.”

There was something a little nervous about Armin off the ice. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable around Jean in particular, just a tint of anxiety to his personality. Maybe that was a good thing, Jean thought. If Marco and Armin were such good friends, then maybe Marco would know what to do with him, too. 

“As we were wrapping things up in Asia and getting ready to come back here, he kept telling me about how much he really wanted to meet somebody when he got here,” Armin said. “Honestly, I think he’s kind of obsessed with getting a boyfriend.” He held his hand up. “Look, don’t go out with him if you don’t want to--”

Jean recoiled a little. “I mean, I like him a lot so far…” he said, feeling his face flush saying it out loud.

“Well, I’m just saying, if it gets a little weird with him,” Armin winced, “it’s probably not you.” He looked Jean in the face. There was nothing malicious or catty about how he talked; instead he seemed worried about Marco. “I mean...yeah, I think he’s a little obsessed with you, but also, like, he’d bounce back?” Armin shrugged. “If you weren’t into it?”

 _There’s no way I’m not at least giving it a shot first, even if he does turn out to be all kinds of crazy,_ Jean thought.

Armin looked into the rink where Mina and Marco were warming up. “The thing about Marco…” his expression was glazed as he remembered. “He’s not like anybody I’ve ever met.” He looked at Jean again. “Like don’t get me wrong, I love him to death, and honestly, I would have been pretty miserable without him while we were traveling. But his brain just doesn’t work like anyone else’s that I know of. Sometimes it kind of drives me crazy.”

Armin had some steam to let off about Marco. Jean didn’t mind being on the receiving end of it. The more insider information, the better. 

“Things that make me want to crawl out of my skin and die,” Armin squinted, “are just...no problem for him.” His shoulders sank. “Like, he’ll say literally anything to anyone. It blows my mind. I can’t even talk on the phone to people I don’t know, in my native language. But he calls people in English all the time! Or like, meeting new people,” Armin lifted his palm up. “The more the better. Sometimes I wonder if he got hit on the head or something as a kid and just ended up weirdly fearless. I mean, stuff just...doesn’t bother him. It’s kind of unfair, to tell you the truth.”

“Yeah, wow. I feel that,” Jean said. “Damn. I wish I could do that. At least a little more often.”

“The thing is, he’s not stupid,” Armin said. “It’s not like he’s clueless and just saying whatever. You can have a great conversation with him. I don’t know,” he crossed his arms. “What gets under my skin is that I can’t tell how he knows how to do these things. Or how much he realizes what he’s doing. Does that make any sense at all?”

“I get what you mean, yeah,” Jean said. 

“But I can’t be mad at him,” Armin had a pained expression. “The guy’s got a heart of gold. And he’s helped me through a bunch of my own shit, so,” he shrugged again. “He’s just my crazy Italian. I don’t know what else to say about him.”

That was the confirmation Jean needed. Marco might be kind of out there, but he wasn’t going to use somebody on purpose. “Yeah, he’s, uh...not shy,” Jean said. “I’m not really even sure what to say to him a lot of the time.”

“He’s not that complicated,” Armin said. “He loves to be happy. Honestly, just tell him about stuff you like, and he’ll probably be over the moon. He’ll probably want to get into it, too.” He tried a sip of his tea. Still scalding. “But I can tell him to lay off a little on the texts. Man...I love him, but...he’s like one of those huge dogs who still thinks he’s a puppy and wants to sit on your lap all the time.”

Jean laughed out loud. “Oh my god. I know exactly what you mean.”

Marco waved at the two of them as he skated past. Jean was so relieved that Marco and Armin weren’t a couple. It would have been another thorn in his side, one more reminder of what he couldn’t have. He was pretty sure the two of them had fucked, though. Positive they had. Granted, if Jean had been in Armin’s shoes, he would have taken everything he could get. No foul there. 

They watched the freestyle practice for a minute. Marco and Mina were working on their tango. _Maybe it’s for the best he’s gay and she’s ace_ , Jean thought. _Otherwise, that ice would be soaked._ It was always a little difficult to watch a couple, even if it was just a performance; Jean was always torn about which person he wanted to be with, and who he wanted to be. He usually ended up wishing he could somehow have all of it. _How can she dance with him like that? And not be like a cat in heat? God, I get half hard just looking at him!_ Mikasa did a triple axel in front of them, and it snapped Jean out of his reverie. 

_All right,_ Jean thought. _If Armin is an elf, I’m a fucking warrior of Rohan_. He took a deep breath. _I can do this. I can have the big dog sit on me, goddamn it. I am the Thoroughbred of Sin!_ _Besides, fuck...if Armin can handle whiny rage beast Eren...I can tame this bull._

He saw Reiner, Connie, and the others approaching from the other end of the atrium. 

“Hey, I better get going, but thanks a lot for the advice,” he said to Armin. 

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you around.” 

To Jean’s surprise, Armin gave him a little side hug. It made him shiver. 

_Ok, I am not going to freak out every time a cute person touches me. I’m not. I can fucking do this_ , he told himself as he walked into the locker room for the east rink. But he knew in reality it wasn’t looking good. He was still a hopeless mess any time affection came his way. 

❄

A few times during the practice, Jean noticed Marco looking in from the atrium. This was when he was glad he’d been doing these drills for years. He didn’t want to let on that anything was distracting him. But when Marco and Armin walked in and sat at the top of the bleachers, talking, it took every ounce of Jean’s concentration to focus on the scrimmages. He tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes on the ice. This wasn’t good. Hockey was the only time Jean’s brain ever shut up. Part of why he loved hockey so much was that he could finally drop everything else and just be in the moment. And now Marco had invaded the sanctum. There was no escape. 

There was no rule that other people couldn’t be in the rink during the practices as long as they didn’t interrupt. But during the breaks, Jean glanced up into the corner. He wondered what they were talking about. He noticed Marco rubbing Armin’s back when he slouched forward, and listening to him very intently. He put his arm around Armin’s shoulders a lot. _Ok, I know they’re friends, and I know Marco’s a touchy guy, but…_ Jean burned with jealousy. Even if it did make him flinch and panic, he wanted to be touched like that. To start, anyways. 

He didn’t have to wait long. 

He took a little extra time drying his hair, trying to get it to look right once he got out of the shower. He changed back into his sweatshirt and jeans, his unofficial off-ice uniform. He liked feeling like part of a squad, visually matching with his teammates, soaking in some of their popularity by association. 

Somewhere in the lobby, Marco was waiting. 

_Oh God._

Jean walked a pace behind Franz and Reiner, toward the arcade where some of their other friends were. Armin was playing Eren at air hockey. A smile crept onto Jean’s face. _All right, there’s one person in this building who’s more nervous than me right now, and it’s Eren!_ From the looks on Annie and Mikasa’s faces, Eren was losing by a lot, and this pleased them greatly. _Yeah, serves you right, you cocky little shit._

Jean’s smug satisfaction evaporated--Marco hugged Mina, kissed Armin on the head, and started walking toward him. Jean wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt more excited or more afraid to see another human being. His face crystallized into a terrified smile.

“Hey! How are you doing?” Marco threw his arms around Jean, who was startled at the force of it. He hugged his guy friends on occasion, but never like this. 

“Pretty good,” Jean squeaked. 

“Marco, body checking is a penalty,” Franz said, leaning in.

This got a laugh from both Marco and Reiner, and Marco relaxed his grip, but he held onto Jean’s shoulders. He looked at Jean’s face for a moment. Jean felt paralyzed and sweaty. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he just rested them lightly on Marco’s hard waist. 

“You have very cool eyes,” Marco said, looking straight into them. “They look like...ah, what is it called?” He shook Jean a tiny bit as he tried to think. He put his forehead on Jean’s shoulder, still holding onto him as he searched for words. “They are these birds, they are said to be very wise…”

“Uh, do you mean...owls?” Jean said.

“Yes! That’s it!” Marco hugged him again, as if they’d just won a game show. 

_Well that’s the best and weirdest compliment anyone’s ever given me,_ Jean thought. His eyes were a very light brown that sometimes looked amber. He'd always liked the color. It was something different, anyways. And he thought it made him look more like his dad; his brothers had their mom's dark blue eyes. 

“I noticed this a bit in your pictures,” Marco put his arm around Jean’s shoulder and swept him along. “But in person, it is really clear. It is such a nice color.” They followed Franz and Reiner into the arcade. 

Reiner turned around. “You know, some horses have yellow eyes,” he said.

“Also demons,” Franz said.

“Hey, you know what? At least Marco here appreciates my yellow eyes,” Jean said. He hooked his arm around Marco’s waist and pulled himself a little closer. _All right, this is what we’re doing now?_ He tried to relax a little. The weight of Marco’s arm and the heat from his body eased him into it. _God, how can it feel this good just to stand with someone?_

“For the record,” Reiner stuck a token in the Street Fighter machine, “I appreciate you a lot, Jean.” The screen sprang to life and Franz took the player two spot. “Just not for your creepy demon horse eyes.”

Jean looked at Marco. His face was so astonishingly close. “Do you see what I have to live with?” He sighed in mock offense. “And they call themselves my friends.”

“Takes a real friend to hang out with a demon horse, I’m just saying.” Reiner scrolled through the list of characters.

“Don’t worry, I love animals,” Marco said, smiling as usual. 

“But do you like demons, is the question.” Franz glanced over his shoulder. 

Jean rolled his eyes. 

“Of course,” Marco said. Both Franz and Reiner turned around. “I sold my soul so I would be really good at skating.”

“You two are going to get along great, I can already tell,” Reiner said. Marco pulled Jean a little closer. 

They were standing near the entrance to the arcade, facing inside, just across from the air hockey table where Eren was still losing miserably. Anyone walking through the atrium could spot their backs, Italian white wrapped around Trost green. There weren’t as many people around that night, but Jean felt oddly conspicuous, antsy about being visible, and yet proud of being claimed like a prize. 

Marco smelled good, too, and it wasn’t just the expensive cologne either. It was him. His hair, his skin, and the way heat radiated from his body; the citrusy cologne was just one small part of it. Jean found it hilarious that he wore cologne to the rink, but he also wished he had something as nice to wear himself. Axe wasn’t going to cut it anymore; Jean suddenly realized how artificial and acrid it smelled in comparison. He thought of raiding Claude’s dresser. No, Marc’s; whatever Claude had wouldn’t work on him. 

Franz and Reiner started their fight, they played as Chun Li and Cammy. Marco and Jean stood closer to see the screen. Marco laughed. “These costumes...they are almost as bad as skating costumes!”

Jean wasn’t about to admit Cammy was his favorite character in the game. He liked athletic, muscular girls. 

Marco looked around the room. The arcade was a relic of the 90s; it had barely been upgraded except for basic maintenance, but that made it one of the iceplex’s best features. It was lit by blue and purple neon shapes around the ceiling. Jean stood in the vaporwave glow and took in the strangeness of being held. 

“I am so bad at all of these games,” Marco said, still smiling.

“You’re like the anti-Eren, then.” Jean said. He was feeling more relaxed; his body was accepting that the one next to him was not, in fact, a threat, and was actually one he very much wanted to spend more time close to. 

“What do you mean?” Marco asked. He glanced at the air hockey table. “Eren is not good at these games either.”

“I mean I’ve never heard Eren say he was bad at anything in his life,” Jean said. 

“Jean’s pretty good at video games,” Franz said. “Aw, damn. It’s too bad we don’t have a claw machine, you could win Marco a teddy bear.”

“No, a little stuffed horse,” Reiner said. 

_Yeah, a stuffed horse is what I’m gonna be unless I really mess this up,_ Jean thought.

“No, a My Little Pony,” Franz said. Then he and Reiner looked at each other. “Oh my god, how have we never thought of this?” They looked at Jean.

“Oh, no. Don’t you fucking start--”

“It’s ok, I will never call you that,” Marco said. 

“Wait, which one would he be?” Franz asked.

“Isn’t there like, an evil, metal one?” Reiner asked.

“Yeahhhhh,” Franz said.

“Oh my god,” Jean muttered. “You want to play something?”

“Ok!” Marco said. He noticed the Frogger machine. “Except I cannot play that one,” he pointed at it. “It is too sad. In fact I think it is the worst game that has been made.”

“Yeah?”

“The little frog gets hit by a car,” Marco said. “That is just terrible. You see?” He pointed to the side of the machine, at the illustration of a cartoon frog holding a briefcase, wearing a necktie. “He is just trying to get to work and be a good frog dad. It is a very stressful game.”

Jean laughed. “Ok, not Frogger then. What else is there...Mortal Kombat...Galaga...Q*Bert…”

“I don’t know what this ‘Q*Bert’ is, but I bet he gives good head,” Marco said. Reiner, Franz, and Jean all laughed out loud. “But surely you have thought this too, no?” The little orange creature was nothing but eyes, feet and a long, tubular snout. 

“Oh yeah, way better than Ms. Pac Man,” Franz said. 

It was remarkable to Jean, how someone could be so innocently friendly and so shamelessly sexual at the same time. “Ok, there’s Hydro Thunder, but that’s just one player at a time--”

“Oh, we have to play the racing one,” Marco said, looking at Cruis’n USA.

“You sure?” Jean asked. He was feeling like more of the candid self he could be around his friends. “I’m going to win that one.”

“But I am Italian,” Marco said. They looked at each other with crafty smiles that said, ‘you’re on.’

Jean pulled two quarters from his wallet. They climbed into the two seats. The game hadn’t necessarily been made for children, but they were still right up next to each other. Marco chose the red Ferrari.

“Of course,” Jean said. 

Marco shrugged. “I have to.”

Jean looked around the room, then chose the ‘68 Ford Mustang. Marco laughed. He had such a warm, beautiful laugh, Jean thought. He wondered how far he’d go to hear it more. 

“Ok, where do you want to go?” Jean asked. The screen told them to choose a track.

“I can’t decide, I want to see all of America,” Marco said.

They chose Golden Gate Park. At the beginning, it was fairly even. When Marco started to pull ahead, Jean decided to play dirty. “Hey Marco,” he said. “Don’t run over any frogs.”

Marco gasped, he had a horrified look on his face before he started laughing. He put his hand on Jean’s knee and gave it a squeeze. Jean ran his car off the track. It took him a while to catch up.

“You do not need to let me win just to be nice to me, you know,” Marco said.

“What the--I am not letting you win!” Jean clutched the little plastic steering wheel. Marco had a gleeful expression on his face, barreling through the pixelated landscape. 

Marco won the first round by a narrow margin. The next two rounds, he won by a lot more. 

“Damn it,” Jean said. But in reality, he’d never been happier to lose. 

Marco looked wistful. “I wish I could actually drive,” he said. Jean’s smile flattened. He’d had his license for two years. 

Franz walked over. “Hey, we should head back, it’s getting kind of late,” he said. 

Marco sighed. “But I am winning.”

“Don’t worry, man. You’ll beat him again,” Franz said. 

“Thanks,” Jean muttered. 

“Who won the Street Fighter?” Marco asked. He took his coat and skate bag from the pile of everyone’s stuff in the corner. Jean put on his parka and grabbed his backpack and hockey bag. 

“Oh, Reiner murdered me,” Franz said. “I’ll get him back soon enough.” 

The walk to the front doors felt especially long that night. Jean was holding onto his backpack straps, he noticed Marco’s left hand hanging free by his side. He hoisted the straps of his hockey bag a little higher up on his left shoulder, then let his right hand fall to his side. Marco grabbed it. Jean tried to keep his face still. Marco looked as happy and nonchalant as ever as they walked, but Jean could also sense how truly tired he was, after a day of classes and four hours on the ice. 

_Ok, something is happening here. And I don’t know what it is, and I’m not used to it, but I’m just going to go with it._ He sighed. _Because I really fucking want this._

Marco gave Jean’s hand a squeeze. _Shit, Marco’s got nice hands._ Jean recognized a few weight room callouses, but that made him like them even more. 

The cold air poured onto them as they stepped out into the parking lot. A few flurries were swirling about in the dark. Franz had parked next to Jean’s jeep. He opened his car’s back hatch. 

“Hey, you want to come over and shoot pool Wednesday?” Franz asked Jean. They had the night off from practice because of their game the night before. “I figured we could find something else for Marco to beat you at,” he said with a smirk.

Jean laughed. Franz possessed a totally different breed of cockiness from Eren. “Ok, this is how it’s going to go. Tomorrow night, we whip Crystal Lake, then Wednesday, I beat your ass at pool.” He pointed at Marco. “Whether he’s on my team or not.”

“Hm, what is this?” Marco slid his skate bag into the car. “I want to be on your team.” He stood next to Jean.

“Hey, how about this. If you two can beat me and Hannah at pool, we’ll buy you dinner,” Franz said. 

Jean raised up his fist and Franz bumped it. “Deal,” he said. 

“All right man, go rest up for the slaughter. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Franz gave him a side hug and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“So after they will buy us dinner, do you want to go for a coffee or something?” Marco asked. He seemed to glow against the heavy, purple-black sky, eyes shining.

“Yeah,” Jean said. “That...sounds great.” 

Marco hugged him again. He was as strong as he looked. “This is a better way to talk when it is cold,” he said. But for a moment, he said nothing. Jean could feel the density of Marco’s body through their heavy coats; tension started to drain out of him from the pressure. 

“I’m excited for your game, I really want to see you play,” Marco said. He gave Jean an air kiss. “Get some sleep, I will see you tomorrow.” He let him go and stood smiling at him for a second. 

“Yeah, have a good night,” Jean said, out of breath. “I’ll see you then.” Marco winked at him. Jean stood in the snow and watched Marco get into Franz’s car before he got into his own. 

He already felt warm without turning the heat on. He watched a few flakes of snow pelt the windshield. The only sound was the rumbling from the train tracks nearby. 

He didn’t want to go home. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this monster of a chapter only covers a single day. :0 I'm going to try to keep this level of detail for the really smutty parts, though. :3
> 
> I spend too much time on this, but it gets me through the lockdown. Let me know if there's anything you want to see more of.

Jean looked at his phone while he ate breakfast. He poured himself another bowl of cereal. He was famished from the day before and fueling up for his game that night. 

Marco posted a photo earlier that morning of himself with his shirt off, lying on the floor, lifting up the cat. **_I have a very hard workout planned for today!!_** read the caption. Marco chose a black and white filter that made it look like a vintage poster, and Jean found it uncanny. Marco was handsome in a classic, wholesome, 1950’s kind of way, and the photo reminded Jean of a postcard from one of those kitschy souvenir shops downtown that sold colorized pin-ups and models of antique cars.

But just when his face started to look innocent and cute, with that snaggletooth smile, there was his shockingly defined body, and the unwholesome thoughts began. The filter made the shadows on Marco darker, and brightened up the spaces where the light from the window was shining down on him. It made him into a sculpture, Jean thought. And how did Marco even get that photo, anyway? Jean tried to imagine how he’d leaned his phone against the wall just so...or did he have some kind of tripod? There’s no way he would have asked Franz…maybe he taped it to a shelf? 

Actually, Marco might be the kind of guy to ask another guy to help him take his thirst trap pictures, Jean realized. _But shit, if I looked that good, I’d post photos of myself all the time, too._

Jean finished his food and a new wave of jealousy washed through him. He could look at the list of people who liked the photo at the end of the day and scope out his competition, but that seemed dreadfully depressing. He knew he had to let it go. He felt like a poorly placed houseplant, aching for its hour in the sun. He also realized he’d never been so jealous of a cat. 

_I guess every skater needs a warm up, right?_ _Maybe I can tide him over until he moves on._ Even still, Marco barely stopped touching him the entire evening before. He was clingy and touchy and possessive, and from anyone Jean hadn't been interested in, it would have been awful, but from Marco it was like kerosene on a campfire. Jean found his thoughts of Marco growing more obsessive. His hesitation to be seen with a guy in public was quickly being overwritten. Jean wondered how many straight guys had ever questioned themselves because of Marco. 

He looked at the photo again and cringed as he typed out a comment that he prayed Marco would find funny. 

**_Those guns are illegal in Italy_** , he wrote. 

Marco liked it immediately, he sent a laughing reaction. Jean thought he might collapse with relief. Then he flinched when he heard footsteps.

« Le voilà, le Cheval du Mal ! » Jean's dad walked in, seeking coffee. He always laughed at the fake jersey Jean wore on game days; the nickname rhymed in French. Jean got his long face and sharp jaw from his father, along with his light eyes and hair. He hoped his hair would turn the same bright white as his dad's as he got older, and that he could wear the same dignified beard. « Are you ready for tonight? »

« Yeah, I think we're going to kill them, » Jean said. 

« That's the spirit! » Philippe Kirstein was in a good mood that morning, and that made Jean feel relieved, too. He wasn't an exceptionally cold man, just reserved. Jean got that from his father as well. 

Jean was on edge any time his parents seemed upset. His mother was so gregarious and jovial that he rarely felt concerned about her. But any time things turned chilly with them, he worried. He'd watched them go through such anguish and misery over his sister, the thought of upsetting them any more, in any way, was completely unbearable. He became even more withdrawn after that. 

Jean gathered up his things and threw his hockey bag in the back of the jeep. A couple times a week, when he didn’t have conditioning, he drove his father to work before school. 

« You didn't show me your artwork, » Philippe said as they pulled out of the salt-covered driveway into the misty snow. 

« What artwork? »

The steam from Philippe's mug curled in the air. Jean would drive with surgical precision to avoid the potholes he knew of. Perhaps no one on earth had as much faith in Jean as his dad, being willing to drink coffee in the car. 

« Your poster for the game tonight, » Philippe said. 

« It's just something Connie and I threw together last minute, » Jean said. It hadn't even occurred to him to show the drawing to his dad. He hadn't shown him a piece of his artwork since junior high. 

« Well, your mother showed it to me. I thought it was very clever. »

Jean smiled, but he kept looking at the road. The only thing that lit Jean up more than Marco's attention was affirmation from his father. At times he wondered if he'd orchestrated his whole life just to hear it more. He knew for sure it was the reason he'd started taking hockey more seriously as a kid; both of his parents loved the sport, and no song and dance seemed too high a price to see them happier, or at least back to normal. But over time, hockey became his own. Whatever couldn't come out in his sketchbooks came out on the ice. All the anger, all the confusion, all the betrayal and grief; as he got older, all the sexual frustration. He knew he truly loved hockey when one of his teammates had to quit because of a knee injury. Jean was livid. He would have done everything he could to get back on the ice. An injury like that would have felt like a death sentence. 

« I've got to figure out what to do for your mother for Christmas, » Philippe said. 

« Yeah, I'm not sure either, » Jean said. « She hasn't dropped any hints yet. »

« Why don't you draw her something? » Philippe asked. 

« I…hadn't even thought about that, » Jean said. He didn't think he'd eever know if she actually liked it or if it was just her motherly obligation prompting her to fawn over it anyways. It felt like the equivalent of giving her a pasta necklace from kindergarten. 

They scooted through the Loop traffic, past Daley Plaza, toward the financial district. In the big, open square next to them, groups of people were setting up little cabin-like structures and hanging long strings of lights for the Christkindlmarkt, a pan-European homage to traditions that waves of immigrants to Chicago brought with them over the years. 

« I think your brothers want to go on Sunday, » Philippe said, looking at the busy crews. « What do you think? If you're not too tired? »

« I should be ok, » Jean said. « We'll probably walk all over Stohess. » He had another game that weekend, lower stakes and farther away. 

« Confidence like that will get you a long way, » Philippe said with an amused smile. 

_Oh, I'm not actually confident, that's just the truth_ , Jean thought. 

« Bring some of your friends if you want to, » Philippe said. « Connie, Sasha, Mina…I think your mother wants to take a big group to Stella Nera and reserve that room she likes. »

Jean's mother, Aude, adored a little Italian restaurant that was off the beaten tourist path in a restored row house, not too far from the Plaza and Philippe’s office. 

« Dad, if I bring Sasha and Connie, they'll eat everything in that place. They're like the plague of locusts, » Jean said. 

Philippe laughed. « I think after cooking for three hockey player sons, nothing will surprise your mom. »

« Thanks, » Jean said. 

« I'm just giving you a hard time, » Philippe said, his smile reassured Jean.

Jean wondered if his parents worried about him, or if they suspected anything. He hadn't brought friends to anything in a long time, most nights he was tired and didn't feel like socializing, and he was prone to spending long bouts of time alone in his room. And he'd never dated anyone… 

Jean reached the front driveway for his dad's building. The huge skyscraper was right off the river, and an intricate art deco frieze wrapped around the top of the ground floor like a giant jacquard ribbon. 

Philippe reached across the console and gave Jean a one-armed hug. « All right, have a good day, I'll see you tonight. »

Jean watched his father join the swarm of bundled-up pedestrians on the sidewalk and disappear into the huge, revolving glass door. Jean was old enough that his parents no longer came to every game, but they would be there tonight. Both of them still played in the beer league sometimes; his dad for the Check Republic and his mom for the Northpoint Trash Pandas. They both started playing hockey for fun again after Marie passed; their therapist told them to do something social, to get some exercise, and not to feel guilty about enjoying their lives again. It had taken them a long time to warm up to it, but once they finally did, everything in the Kirstein household lightened up, like a heavy veil had been lifted. 

All Jean had wanted back then was for them to be happy. 

He didn't have to be nervous about his family watching him play. They never pushed him when it came to hockey; it was his ambition alone that made him dedicate his heart to it. But even if they had, once the game began, his body took over. Instinct ran the show and set him free. The part of him that felt nervousness ceased to exist, and a completely different consciousness came to the fore. 

Jean turned his music up as loud as he could stand it once he was alone. Paradis, Antiphon. 

He tried to keep his eyes on the road, but texts from Marco distracted him. 

**_Hey!! How are you going? I am so happy to see you tonight!!_ **

Jean reached a stoplight and looked around discreetly. **_Good! Just dropped my dad off at work. Driving!_ **

**_Oh no be careful!! :0_ ** **_  
_** **_I do not want you to get in a wreck!!_ ** Marco said. 

**_I have a feeling it wouldn't be the first time you caused an accident_ **, Jean wrote. The person behind him honked for him to go. 

**_I did not do it on purpose_** **,** Marco wrote. **_:(((_**

Jean pictured people walking into posts, cyclists colliding with fruit stands, cars taking out café tables as beautiful, sunny Marco walked past, cheerfully oblivious. 

Jean made it to the parking lot unscathed. **_Ok, I made it!_ **

**_Good I am so glad you drive better in real life than in the arcade game!!_ **Marco said. 

**_Hey, real driving is a lot harder!_ **Jean hoped Marco wouldn't think he was actually mad. 

**_I want to drive somewhere with you :))))_** , Marco said. **_I don't know where, I am just thinking about it!!_**

Jean looked at the time. **_Hey I have to go but I'll talk to you soon!_**

**_:D :D :D_ ** was the response. 

Could it really be this easy to make him happy? Or was Marco just happy all the time, for no reason? Jean made it to class with a minute to spare and looked at Marco's cat photo again. A dozen people had liked his comment. There was a string of responses. 

**_Good thing you're in America now!_ ** Mina wrote. 

**_Marco is actually the entire Italian mafia_** , Armin wrote. 

**_No that's impossible! He's too nice!_** Wrote one foreign skater friend. 

**_That's why you never see it coming_** , wrote another. 

Jean was feeling bold again. **_@Mina, when you find all of your competition at the bottom of Lake Michigan, you'll know._ **

He put his phone back in his pocket and took out his notebook, but he was distracted, thinking about how he could see Marco without his family seeing the two of them together. _God knows I'm already drowning,_ he thought. 

❄

Jean heard the familiar _zzzt zzzt_ of his phone on the table as he washed paintbrushes in the art room sink with Connie and Bert. They were the last to leave and took their time cleaning up. Jean dried off his hands and looked at his phone. He slapped it back down on the table. 

Connie laughed. "What was that?"

Jean blinked, shook his head, and said nothing. 

"Is he sending you nudes?" Connie asked, one eyebrow raised. 

"What? No, he's at the rink," Jean said. 

"There's showers at the rink," Bert said. 

Marco sent Jean a photo of himself in the locker room after he'd gotten out of the shower, a mirror selfie; his wet hair lay a little flatter, he had a towel around his waist, but it was slung low, and in the reflection in the mirror behind him, Jean could see the hard little divots in his lower back and the top of his muscular butt cheeks. A sign that read "No cell phone use in locker rooms" was clearly visible behind him. 

**_I am going to pretend that I don't speak English!! ;)_ ** Marco wrote. 

"Ok," Jean said with a sigh. "What do you call a guy who's too big to be a twink, not hairy enough to be a bear, and too muscular to be an otter?" He put his brushes back in their long vinyl bag and stuck them in his backpack. 

"Hm…a panther," Connie said. 

"No," Bert said, picking up his bag. "If this is Marco we're talking about, he's definitely a leopard."

Jean put his face in his hand. Then he peered between the gap in his fingers and looked at the photo one more time. Marco was already really pushing what a professional skater could get away with on the kinds of photos he liked to post. This wasn't one for Snapchat or Instagram. Unless Marco had a whole bunch of guys on retainer who he sent photos to, this one was just for Jean. He was sweating under his jersey. 

**_Ok now I think you actually are in the mafia because you're clearly trying to kill me_** _,_ Jean typed. 

**_No? Why would I do that? ;)_ ** Marco wrote. 

**_Ok, how about this  
_ ** **_You should have been a boxer  
_ ** **_Because you are a knockout_** , Jean typed. Yeah, it was cheesy. But Marco seemed to love cheesy things. 

**_:D :D :D  
_ ** **_Armin said my shirt is too tight? :(  
_ ** **_So I took it off :)))_ **

**_Hey,_** **_I'm not going to tell you to put your shirt back on, but it's not my fault if you get in trouble_** , Jean typed while Bert and Connie rearranged their work to fit on the drying racks. _Clothes don’t seem to want to stay on him long_ , Jean thought. 

They'd been working on a still life of fruit that day, and the entire time Jean was trying to paint, he kept getting distracted by the bananas. They were just beginning to get brown spots, and all Jean could think about was whether or not Marco had freckles on his dick. 

He walked with Bert and Connie to the parking lot. They had a free period after lunch on Tuesdays, and decided to go off campus to eat. They piled into Bert's truck. 

Jean's phone buzzed again. **_But I want to get in trouble with you ;)_** Marco said. 

Jean wasn't sure what to say. _You are trouble_ , he thought. _Although I get the feeling trouble means something very different in your world than it does in mine..._

"Jean, breathe," Bert said as he drove them to their favorite noodle shop. "It's going to be ok."

“How is it," Jean asked, "that I can stare down an entire hockey team and I feel nothing, like I even feel bored sometimes...and yet this guy, Freckled Jesus from Italy, scares the shit out of me?”

Connie grinned. “Because you like him.”

"Because he's pretty," Bert said. 

They claimed a booth in the front window of the shop. The gritty gray piles of snow outside were freshly disguised from the newly fallen layer, making everything on the street around them softer and lighter. Their table glowed blue and orange from the neon sign above them. They slurped noodles out of huge ceramic bowls, and destroyed a tower of banh mi sandwiches.

“I don’t really get why this is so hard for you, Jean,” Bert said. “I mean, we’re friends with you, right? Like you know we’ve got your back.”

“Well, yeah,” Jean said. 

“Ok, so just imagine that coming from someone who really wants to bone you,” Bert said.

“Jesus,” Jean muttered. He cocked his head. “Is that what it’s like for you and Reiner?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Bert said. “He’s my bro. And then, you know, sometimes I bang him. It’s great.”

Jean sighed into his ramen; Connie laughed.

“Man, Marco was _all over you_ last night, that was hilarious,” Connie said.

“You were watching?” Jean asked.

“Well not specifically, no, but Eren kept pointing it out and making fun of you,” Connie said. “Also...Marco’s kind of hard to miss.”

"I thought Eren was too busy getting his ass beaten at air hockey to notice," Jean said. 

“Yeah…I think Eren’s a little jealous of you,” Bert said, twirling noodles around his chopsticks. 

Jean’s face blanched. “He doesn’t like Marco, does he?”

“Well I think _everyone’s_ got a crush on Marco, let’s be real,” Bert said. “But no, it’s more like, he’s still so deer-in-the-headlights around Armin, you know? Like he’s standing there, stiff as a board, sweating buckets, just...totally blindsided by this guy, and then Marco’s all like, Pepe Le Pew,” Bert did a little hand flip.

Connie wrapped his arms around Jean’s shoulders. “You are mine now,” he said in a mock Italian accent. He started to lick Jean’s face. Jean pushed him off of him and Connie laughed harder than before. 

“God, you make him sound like Borat,” Jean said to Connie.

Connie shrugged. “I can’t do the accent. But still.”

“Yeah, well I hope Eren loses his shit,” Jean says. “That guy needs to be taken down a peg.” He ate a slice of mushroom out of his soup. “He’s been giving me hell for so long, it’s nice to see it come back around.”

“Jean, you know why he makes fun of you, right?” Bert asked him. He took the cap off of his iced tea. Jean leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms. “He’s been teasing you since before he knew for sure he liked guys, hasn’t he? Well, it’s not like he’s going to stop now that he thinks you’re hot. Calling you a horse has been his cover for years, and now his ego’s too big to quit.” Bert took a sip of his drink. “It’s like a smokescreen. Kind of like you hitting on Mikasa,” he said.

“Oh my god,” Jean groaned. 

“Jean, come on, man, I mean, do you _actually_ want to date Eren?” Connie asked. He slurped up a tapioca bubble from his pink bubble tea. “I love him like a brother but he’s still a royal pain in the ass, that’s never gonna change.”

 _Why do I have to be finding this out now?_ Jean thought. _Could I actually have had a shot with him?_ _Jesus, do I really want a shot with a guy who’s been telling me I’m ugly for years because he was insecure about being gay?_ Unfortunately, Jean still did. 

“Eren doesn’t, like, admit he’s wrong about things,” Connie said. 

“I couldn’t date him,” Bert said. 

“You know, right now,” Jean seethed, “I just want him to stay in his fucking lane.” He poked around in his ramen broth with his chopsticks. “I don’t care what happens with him and Armin, I just want him to stay the hell away from Marco. He doesn’t get to ruin that for me.”

“You need to relax about Marco,” Bert said. “Just have fun with him. It’ll be good for you.”

“Bert. Have I ever been able to relax? Ever?” Jean slouched over his food and looked up at Bert through his spiky bangs.

“I have faith in you, Jean,” Bert said. “The guy’s nuts about you, man. He’s laying it on pretty thick.”

Jean nodded, aching to see Marco again. In a way, it didn’t matter if it was awkward. He just wanted Marco to touch him more. And he wanted Eren to suffer. _I want you to feel what it’s like to be me, and be petrified because you have no idea if anything you do or anything about you is ever good enough._

Jean thought he would still be enchanted with Marco even if he'd never met Eren. But the thought of having something he could lord over Eren, being able to really rub it in, was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Like getting a scholarship to Eren's top choice school. 

No one stoked the arrogant, obstinate fires in Jean like Eren could. 

Jean took out his phone and answered Marco's text about getting in trouble. **_Just say when ;)_ **he wrote. 

❄

Marco didn't have to bail on practice like he expected to. Just about everyone was taking a break that evening to watch the game. If it hadn't been for the huge digital clock with its glaring red numbers, Marco would easily have lost track of time. Skating took him away like that. He had to develop an acute, supernatural awareness of his own body and his partner's; fractions of inches and fractions of seconds meant the difference between glory and injury. The dances themselves were all memory, intuition, rhythm, and emotion, rising up out of the body, shining out into the arena. There simply wasn't time or space for typical, critical thoughts. Few things in life made him feel more alive, and he was hard pressed to think of anything he wanted to do more, except for maybe sex. 

He walked with Mina, Annie, and Mikasa into the rink across from where they'd been rehearsing. Marco wore his dark green sweatshirt in solidarity, identical to one that Armin often wore. The bleachers were not completely full, but green shirts overwhelmed them. Jean was easy to spot, a little taller than the other two forwards, his last name emblazoned across his back. Marco opened his thermos of tea and took a deep breath. It was nice to have a break after a full day. He liked the feeling in the arena: the happy, hungry attitude of the fans; the gladiator-like determination from Jean’s team. It had been so long since Marco had been to a sporting event that wasn’t for figure skating, maybe not since he’d last seen his dad. He felt the collective thrill in the room. The whole iceplex had been remodeled in the last few years (except for the ancient arcade), and there was a bright, fresh feeling in each rink. Flags hung from the high ceiling and banners from all the local hockey clubs lined the walls, infusing them with energy and color. Marco watched Jean, taking in how he moved. It was like watching a pack of wolves hunt, the way Jean, Eren, and Connie triangulated around each other, with a sixth sense for the others’ positions on the ice at any time. 

“Ok, so, don’t tell either of them that I said this, but Jean’s a way better skater than Eren,” Mikasa said. “I mean, Eren’s fast and all, but it’s like he’s sprinting straight at you because he wants to kill you. Jean at least has got some more technique.”

“He’s slippery, like an eel,” Annie said. “Watch! Watch this!” She grabbed Marco’s shoulder.

Jean faked out a defender and set Connie up for a goal, who zipped in from nowhere. To Marco it seemed like it happened in less than a second. He smiled from ear to ear. The bleachers erupted with cheering, and Marco felt energized by it. 

It didn’t take Eren long to end up in the penalty box. He reminded Marco of a hyena, rabid, foaming at the mouth. But there was something kind of cute about that, too. Jean and Connie were on their own, but they moved so fast, and with such precision. Marco noticed the way Jean’s cheeks flushed from exertion. He loved it. Franz made short work of an opposing forward. Jean tried for a shot on goal and missed, just barely. Marco tried to imagine how it felt to be Jean, out there doing the thing he’d been training for over so many years. Did it bring him the same euphoria Marco got from skating? There was a fierceness to Jean, a confidence in his skating that made the players around him recoil; they looked reactive and weak, nervous and fearful in comparison. And all of them were large guys, and competent skaters. 

From the corner of his eye, Marco saw Armin walk in, tentative, trying to blend in with the crowd. He weaseled his way through the stands and took the spot between Marco and Annie. Marco gave him a back-cracking hug. Armin always seemed to need it. There was something sweet and familiar about holding Armin, but Marco felt more and more pulled toward the angry animals on the ice. He wanted a beast of his own. There was no hesitation at all in Jean’s movements, but he was quick, subtle and sneaky. Marco couldn't predict what Jean would do next, and it gave him a thrill. If he was this intense on the ice, what would he be like in the sack? Shy and hesitant? Dominant and aggressive? All of it sounded like fun. It was just such a shame the players were all so covered up, laden with their heavy gear. 

“Jaeger! Jaeger!” the crowd shouted as Eren got back on the ice to face off again. 

“Poor guy looks like he’s going to shit himself,” Annie said about Eren’s opponent. 

Connie and a defender slammed into the plexiglass wall. Armin flinched; Marco put his arm around him. 

“This is so exciting,” Marco said.

“Marco, do you even know what's going on?” Armin asked.

“Not really,” he said. “You know, there is something missing. They should have a half-time show. Like the Americans have for their football.”

"You mean cheerleading for hockey?” Armin laughed

"Yes! That would be so great, no?"

"Jesus, Marco. Only you would think of that." Armin shook his head. 

Jean rushed another player, giving Eren a clear path to shoot. Another razor-thin miss, keeping the crowd on edge. 

"I am so proud of Jean,” Marco said, starry-eyed. “Watch him, he is so good."

Armin rolled his eyes. “Marco...You literally just said you don't follow the game.”

Marco laughed. “I am just following Jean!”

"That reminds me," Armin said. "You need to cool it a little with Jean." 

Marco’s face fell. “What do you mean? Something is wrong?”

“No, everything’s fine, I just, well, I talked to him for a little while yesterday, and…” Armin went quiet when he saw Marco’s worried expression. “Look, he likes you, ok?” Armin said. “That’s not the problem. He wanted to know more about you!” Armin was starting to scramble to be reassuring. “You just...you text him a lot. And that kind of stresses him out.”

For a second Marco wondered if Jean was interested in Armin instead, or if Armin planned to go after Jean. He felt deeply confused. He looked out across the ice. “I don’t understand, why did he talk to you and not me?”

Armin shrugged, his hands in the pockets of his green sweatshirt. “I don't know, probably because he wants you to like him?”

“But I already like him, I thought he knows this,” Marco said.

“I guess...I don’t know, he probably just doesn’t know how to tell you he’s stressed out,” Armin said.

“I had no idea he felt stressed,” Marco said, agitation brewing. “He always answers me right away, so I thought he wants to talk to me.”

"No, he _does_ ," Armin said. “I think it just makes him anxious.”

Worry began to curdle inside Marco. He would have to shine a light on it, like burning an anthill with a magnifying glass. Then, all the painful thoughts would go away, just like they always did, right? He kept his eyes on Jean. No one in Marco’s world believed in love at first sight except for Marco, and Marco chose not to talk about it, because he didn’t want to be bothered with other people’s cynical responses. He would simply find out what he needed to do to get what he wanted. If there was a problem, they would just talk about it, wouldn’t they? If Jean wanted something, Marco would just do it. How difficult did it have to be? Everything would be fine as long as Jean wanted him. Marco refused to believe otherwise. 

"But why is he anxious?" Marco asked. 

"Marco, I'm not a mind reader," Armin said. “He’s probably just shy.” On the ice below, Jean collided with another player, and Marco cringed at the sound as the other boy’s helmet hit the ice. “In spite of how he looks out here,” Armin added. 

“So he is like you then," Marco said softly as he watched Jean sit down in the penalty box with a smug, haughty look on his face. 

"What do you mean?" Armin asked.

"I mean he is like one of those people,” Marco said with a sigh, “You tell them they are great, and they never believe you. They are always afraid of something, or they are afraid they are bad, but there is nothing bad about them. There is nothing wrong with them." He turned to Armin and ruffled his hair.

“God, Marco...you say everyone's great.” Armin looked at the floor, and Marco sensed he’d hit a nerve. “You say every _thing_ is great. When you say it all the time it doesn’t mean anything anymore. So why would someone always believe you when you say it?”

Marco felt frustrated, but then, he knew Armin was upset, so why would Armin see where he was coming from? “No, Armin, you are not understanding me,” Marco said. “If I say something is great, it’s because I think it is true. If something is not great, then I don’t talk about it. There are a lot of things that I think are bad. I talk about what I like because it makes me happier.”

“I wish my life were that simple,” Armin said.

“It does not have to be simple. You just need a few things that are good,” Marco said. He lay his hand on Armin's shoulder. “Well, I think you are great. I wish you believed me, but I don't care. I am just going to keep telling you!” He smiled wide.

Armin crossed his arms and shook his head. “You know if it were that easy, I would just...believe you.”

“Armin, I do not understand you at all,” Marco said. “But you are still great."

Another player hooked Eren with his stick, sending him to the ice. But Eren jumped back up immediately. 

Marco was used to being wrong about a lot of things. The more he brushed it off and let it go, the happier he felt. He became free. But some things were more painful to be wrong about than others. He guessed he was wrong about that, too, that letting go would always be easy. After all, it hadn’t been easy to let go of his dad. It hadn’t been easy to accept how his mom wanted to live, even though he was used to it by now. And even though he knew he’d never done anything wrong with Laeticia, his old partner, he still felt guilty that he couldn't be the boyfriend to her that she wanted and deserved. He hoped she was happier in France, finished with competing, free to date and live her life. 

“What do you think I should say to Jean?” Marco asked. “I don't want to make him feel bad, you know? I want him to be happy. I text him all the time because I like to talk to him.”

“Honestly, Marco, you could just tell him that. I mean, just tell him you like talking to him but you don’t want him to feel overwhelmed, or like he has to get back to you right away. Do you know what I mean?”

Marco nodded. 

“I think Jean and I are kind of alike in some ways, yeah,” Armin said. “Like, when you talk to us...you don’t think we’re stupid, right?”

“What? No, of course not. Not at all,” Marco said.

“So, if someone you know is pretty smart is worried about something...don’t you think it’s just...out of their control?” Armin asked. “Like if they could do something about it then and there, and fix it, they would?”

“Yes, I think I see what you mean,” Marco said. 

Armin leaned against Marco as he often did when he was tired or worried about something. Marco never wanted Armin to be worried, but he liked the feeling of being leaned on.

“It’s kind of like if you saw ghosts all the time,” Armin said. “Even if you know they’re not real, even if you know they can’t hurt you, they can still sneak up on you, you know? It’s still scary even if you know, deep down, that it’s fake. It’s like you’re always on edge.”

Marco rubbed Armin’s back.

“I don’t know why,” Armin said. “But I’ve got a lot of ghosts. Jean seems like a pretty cool guy, but he’s probably got a bunch of his own ghosts, too.”

“It makes sense,” Marco said. “You are good at explaining things, Armin. That is another great thing that you have.”

Armin smiled faintly.

“Tell me about some other great things,” Marco said.

Armin laughed, then shook his head. “Well...I've been talking to Eren a lot."

“Oh my god, he is so pretty,” Marco said. He noticed Armin’s smile fall flat. “Almost as pretty as Jean," Marco added with a wink. He felt Armin slouch forward with relief.

❄

After the first period, the crowd dispersed to socialize and get food. 

“Hi, Mrs. Kirstein!” Mina called to a woman a few rows in front of them. 

A short woman with a round face and a reddish brown ponytail turned around and walked up to them; to Marco she looked like an older Hannah. “Oh, hi, sweetheart! How are you?” She gave Mina a hug. 

Mina introduced her to Marco. “He just got here from Italy, like, a few days ago--”

“Ah, so you are Jean’s mom?” Marco said. He gave her the air kisses. “It is so great to meet you! I have just met Jean the other day, he is so nice!”

Aude looked beyond delighted to hear someone talk so excitedly about her son. She turned around. « Honey, come meet Mina’s new skating partner! » she called to Philippe, who was distracted talking to Stepan Kefka. Marco loved her Canadian accent. He was used to the Swiss French his grandparents spoke. 

Marco shook Philippe’s hand; he already had a big smile on his face, so one would know just how excited he was to see what a good-looking older man Jean’s father was. _Wow, Jean! You are going to be such a fox when you are old!_

“So what do you think of the game?” Stepan asked him. 

“It is really fun,” Marco said. He put his arm around Mina and glanced at the team on the opposite side of the rink, being scolded by their coach. “Franz is really good. So is Jean.” This earned him smiles from the parents. Good. That was the reaction he was going for. “We have nothing like this in Italy. There are no sports through our schools, you know? So it is really very different.”

“Marco’s staying with us this year,” Stepan said to Aude.

“Oh, are you going to Shiganshina?” Aude asked. Marco nodded. “We thought about sending Jean there, for the language program, but, you know,” she shrugged, “they don’t have hockey!”

 _Really?_ Marco thought. _That’s why he’s not there? Not the astronomical tuition and the reputation for being rich kid rehab? Interesting._

“Ah, yeah, today, I think I would rather go to Trost,” Marco said with a smile, looking around the room. The adults were a little jilted by his indifference to Shiganshina. But that was all right. He could tell by the looks on their faces that they already liked him. 

“Sure would be nice,” Mina said, nudging him.

“Ah, but, I think my English is not yet good enough,” Marco said.

“Aw, come on,” Mina said. “You speak better English than plenty of the kids at Trost.”

“Well, speaking is not so bad,” Marco said. “But to write, you know, that is a different thing.” 

“So how are you liking Chicago?” Aude asked. 

Marco told them about having never been to the US, and about how badly he wanted to see more of the city as soon as he could. Aude invited him and Mina to the Christmas market and out to dinner Sunday night. Marco beamed at the idea. He liked Aude. She was so warm and cheerful and chatty, so totally different from his own mom. It made him happy that Jean had a mom like that. He ramped up the Italianisms talking to her; she seemed tickled by it. He had every intention of getting in good with the adults in Jean’s world. The more they liked him, the more time he could spend with Jean. 

❄

“This has got to stop,” Erwin hissed at his players. By now, Jean and Eren knew how to take it. They weren’t so intimidated by his tirades anymore. “This is not a strategy,” Erwin said. “You guys cannot get this many fouls. This is unacceptable. We don’t do these drills nonstop every week for you guys to get out there, forget your training, and just dive bomb the other team like a bunch of goddamn banshees. That’s not hockey. That’s assault. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, coach,” they said. 

“You are too skilled to be playing this way. You are better than this. Now get out there and show it. And look,” he glared at Eren, “if you are going for intimidation tactics, you can do that with your speed. You have it. You have your skills. You do not need to fight with those guys like this.” 

Jean knew Erwin was right. But they did have a secret strategy going. With most teams in the league, even with the others on a power play, they were so much faster that they could get away with losing a player temporarily. Eren did his banshee thing, terrifying the other players, and then every minute he spent in the penalty box was a chance for Jean and Connie to shine even brighter. Eren was skilled, but mostly, he was brutal; he took risks other players couldn’t get away with. Collectively, they’d learned to be fearless; Jean and Connie seized every sliver of an opening they could take, and Eren’s brazenness created more of them. They were known for not backing away, beyond the point of personal safety and reason. 

But the real elephant in the room was something else. Bert was struggling to hide the pain in his knee, and Jean and Eren's ruthlessness was also meant keep the action away from him. Their second-string goalkeeper was not as strong. Franz could play the position, too, if he needed to. Jean and Eren were trying to spare Bert from too much movement during their last two games before their winter break, when he could make a more complete recovery for the second half of the season. 

Erwin pointed to the stands. “By the way. They aren’t doing formal scouting, but there are coaches from Northwestern and U of I here tonight,” he said. “So those of you who are going after scholarships better damn well step it up and leave a good impression.”

 _Shit, seriously?_ But when Jean turned to look, what caught his eye instead was Marco talking to his mother. _Oh my god._ He saw his mom wave Marc and Claude over; he watched Marco shake their hands. Mina was there; Jean sensed she was showing Marco off, but Marco seemed to love it. He said something that made them all laugh. Jean was dying to know what it was. He panicked; was it something about him? For a minute, he was completely oblivious to what his coach was saying. 

“Am I clear?” Erwin said. 

“Yes, sir,” the others replied. Jean flinched. _Shit, what did I miss?_

Trost was ahead 1-0 after the first period. Jean waited on the bench next to Eren and Connie for the first part of the second period. He was tired, but he ached to play, worried about Bert. Off to the side, he noticed Nanaba watching the game, along with Levi and his squad of fellow coaches, all chattering on in impenetrable Russian. She was casting a worried look in Bert's direction, too. 

Marco waved to him from across the ice. Jean discreetly waved back. 

“Got your whole fan club over there, huh?” Eren asked.

Jean rolled his eyes. He could clearly spot Armin, Mikasa, and Eren’s dad in the stands. “What, like you don’t?”

“Shut up, you two,” Connie said. “You know they’re all here for Marco.”

Jean took off his helmet and gloves for a moment and massaged his scalp. His hair hung damp in his face. He noticed Eren looking at him. 

Connie studied the other players. “So are we going to play nice like coach said, or--” 

“Psh. No,” Eren said. “We stick to the plan.”

Thomas, Marlowe, and Boris would hold the fort through the second period. But it would be the banshees that delivered the crushing, humiliating defeat. 

❄

The crushing defeat was more of an agonizing stalemate. Trost won, from Connie's single, early goal. It was good, Jean thought, for Connie to get more recognition; he was the man of the hour, and Sasha burst through the crowd around him and mauled him with a hug. Jean soaked in the glow of victory for a moment. He and Eren were quietly pissed not to have scored (well, what was new? Jean thought), but still excited for Connie, and that was all that mattered. Jean flung his damp hair out of his face and stood up tall. _Yeah, that’s right. Remember the name. Jean Kirstein, motherfuckers. Bad Horse._

He spotted his dad in the crowd and his bravado evaporated. Suddenly he was five years old again and just excited to be good. 

«Bien joué, Jeanot ! » Philippe clapped Jean on the back. 

«Féroce ! » Claude hugged him. 

Marc was laughing. « Jesus, Jean, that Jaeger kid's a bad influence, » he said. « I swear, you guys get meaner every year. I mean, good game and all, but shit. I wouldn't play against you. » Marc hadn't been as ardent about hockey as his brothers. He enjoyed it, but it was more for exercise and to socialize than to play out any personal vendettas.

Marco and Mina had been waiting for him with his family. It was odd to Jean to see Marco with them, as if he'd known them all forever, just chattering away with Aude. Jean got another smooshing hug from his mom. The crowd was starting to make their way back into the atrium, and Jean's teammates were peeling off to go change out of their gear. 

« Hey! You were so good! » Marco completely ignored how sweaty Jean was and gave him a huge hug, too. It took a second for Jean to register… 

« Wait, since when do you speak French? » Jean was dumbstruck. Marco was still holding onto his shoulders, like he did.

« My mom is Swiss, » Marco said with his doe-eyed smile. « My grandparents speak it. »

Jean just blinked for a second. « Is there anything you can't do? » He glanced at his parents and his brothers, they seemed unfazed, talking to each other and the other parents. 

« Yeah, of course! Driving, playing hockey, and speaking English right! » Marco laughed. « I just think it is so charming that you speak French with your family! » He hugged Jean around his shoulders again. « So I wanted to try it, too. » Marco spoke French very similarly to how he spoke English, with great fluency but a heavy Italian accent. Jean still found it surreal. 

« They're…going to love you, » Jean said. 

« Ah yes I hope so! I like them a lot, they are so nice! » Marco tilted his head. « Your brothers are not as good-looking as you are, though. »

Jean laughed uneasily. « I need to go change. »

« Of course! Go get rid of…all of this. » Marco gestured to Jean's heavy gear and winked. He nodded toward the lobby. « I will see you out there. »

Jean showered and changed as fast as he could without looking suspicious. He hoped his dad and Franz’s would go down some conversational rabbit hole, as they often did, and take their sweet time talking; that way they’d be distracted, and Jean would have more time to talk to Marco. 

Jean walked out with Bert. “You ok, man?” he asked.

“Nope,” Bert said, smiling as if there was nothing wrong. “I gotta talk to Nanaba tomorrow.” Jean could just barely discern the tears forming in the corners of Bert’s eyes. He didn’t walk with a limp, but his breathing was shallow. Bert would play through almost anything, but that didn’t mean it was a good idea.

“Talk to her tonight,” Jean said.

“Yeahhh...I don’t want the other guys to be worried,” Bert said.

“Ok, I won’t say anything, but get it checked out soon, all right? I’m worried about you,” Jean said. 

Bert gave him a thumbs up. When they reached their group in the crowded atrium, Marco burst out laughing at Bert’s sweatshirt:

 _Be kind to animals  
_ _Hug a hockey player_ , it read.

“That is such a good advice!” Marco said. He threw his arms around Jean again. 

Jean was frozen solid. _Oh my god. Marco. My parents. Are. Right. Here._

Marco let him go. He rubbed Jean’s back. “Are you ok?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m great,” Jean said. Marco draped his arm around Jean again and stood that way while they talked to the others; Franz and his dad, Hannah, Reiner and his parents, Bert and his mom, and Jean’s whole flock along with Mina, Sasha, and Connie stood around them in a big cluster, all talking about the game, catching up, shooting the breeze. 

_Act normal. Look normal. This is fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here._

Jean realized that no matter how aggressive he could be on the ice, he would never be as bold in life as Marco Bodt. Marco put his other arm around Mina, claiming her, too.

 _Ah, ok, see, this is good. This is normal. He’s just...clingy with his friends. Haha, friends, right?_ Then Jean wondered if Mina had sidled up to Marco on his behalf. Marco had his arm around Mina all the time; they were already naturally cozy together, not so much like a typical couple, but more like when a dog and cat grow up together and are inseparable. 

Reiner grinned at Marco. “You look happy,” he said.

“I am very happy!” He pulled his companions closer. “I love America!”

Jean laughed, trying to look casual. He scanned his parents’ faces for signs of disapproval, but they were preoccupied with talking to everyone. Jean tried to enjoy the feeling of Marco’s body next to his, but he struggled. His palm around Marco’s waist was sweating, and Mina was resting her thin, light arm on top of his across Marco’s back. He had few words besides “thanks” for the people who came up to congratulate him. 

Bert came and stood next to him. He put his arm around Jean’s waist, and Jean tried not to flinch. Bert seemed completely nonchalant and casual. Then Reiner put his arm around Bert. For a few minutes, Jean found himself at the center of an awkward human daisy chain that everyone was passing off as totally normal. 

“Hey, Trost guys! Get together! Photo!” Sasha shouted. She held up her phone in its sparkly green case.

Marco let Jean go, but he and Mina got out their own phones. Connie lay stretched out on his side across the floor in front of the group, with sunglasses on. The parents crowded around to take pictures of their own. _Shit. No, the daisy chain was better_ , Jean thought, frozen in the dozens of little flashes. 

When they all finally made their way out to the cars, Marco caught up to Jean. They walked slowly. “Hey, I really liked watching your game tonight,” he said. He grabbed Jean’s hand again, a few paces back from the others. With their heavy coats and bags, it was harder to see that they were holding hands. “But it was also so strange watching you play. You are like two different people. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Yeah,” Jean laughed a little. “You’re not the first person to say that. There’s kind of a running joke that the whole team is like that. You know that famous book Jekyll and Hyde?”

“I’ve heard of it, yes,” Marco said. He glanced up ahead. No one was looking back at him and Jean.

“It’s my friend Marlowe’s nickname--”

“Ah, this is on the fake jerseys that you have, yes?” Marco squeezed Jean’s hand. 

“Yeah--”

“And you are Bad Horse?” Marco laughed. 

“It’s from this TV show…”

“I looked it up,” Marco said. “I like it. I think it’s funny.” He looked out at the skyline that was just visible across the parking lot. “But yeah, you are really good. I like watching you. I have never tried playing hockey, so,” he shrugged, “I am just impressed.” 

For a second, Jean wished Marco wouldn’t work on his English: not if it kept him from being so straightforward and honest. The words were tonic to Jean. Coming from someone who’d competed at an international level for his own sport, they carried a lot of weight. 

“I like you so much,” Marco said, looking at the sky. Jean had no idea what to say. “Hey, you do not need to text me if you are busy, you know this, yes?” 

“What? Uh, yeah--”

“I like to talk, so I send a lot of texts,” Marco said, smiling at him. “But you should just send whatever you want. It should be whatever you feel like.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Jean said, his voice light. 

“They are ready to go,” Marco said, looking over at Franz and Stepan. He stopped walking. “I am going to get so good at playing pool, Franz is going to hate it,” he said with a mischievous look. “I will see you tomorrow.” He grabbed Jean’s hips and kissed his cheek. Marco did have nice lips. Jean's whole body flooded with heat. 

« Jean, tu viens ou quoi? » Claude called out to him.

« J’arrive! » Jean shouted.

Marco kept looking at him as he got in Franz’s car. All Jean could think as he threw his gear in the back of the Jeep was _how is this so easy for him?_

_And how does he already know he likes me?_

  
  


❄

When Jean finally extracted himself from his family after dinner and was alone in his room, he texted Marco. His mom had made a comment about how happy she was for Mina, and how cute the pair was, but nobody mentioned anything else about Marco. Had they not noticed? Had they not cared? He guessed Marco always had the European defense...

 **_Hey, sorry I was kind of weird tonight_** , Jean typed.

 **_How do you mean?_ ** Marco wrote. **_I was so happy to see you!! :D_ **

**_I was really glad to see you too_ ** , Jean said.  
 **_The thing is,_ ** **_  
_** **_My family doesn’t know I’m bi_ ** **_  
_** **_So I didn’t know how they would react to seeing you_ ** **_  
_** **_like with your arm around me and that kind of thing_ **

**_Oh my god I had no idea Jean_** , Marco wrote.  
 **_I am so sorry_ ** **_  
_** **_They are not upset with you? :(_ **

**_No, you’re good!_ ** Jean typed.  
 **_I’ll talk to them about it  
_ ** **_At some point._ ** Jean had no idea when or how to bring it up. **_  
_** **_It’ll be fine._ ** Maybe being accidentally outed was the best thing. Just rip off the band-aid. **_  
_** **_I think they think you’re just being European._ ** But Jean was still sincerely afraid, and he had no idea how justified his fear even was. **_  
_** **_I just got kind of nervous._ **  
**_It’s not a big deal_ **

**_Are you sure_ ** ? Marco typed back.  
 **_You do not seem like you are feeling ok :/_ **

**_Yeah I’ll be fine_** , Jean said.  
 **_I just didn’t want you to think I was pushing you away._ **

**_No I did not think that at all!!_ ** Marco said.  
 **_Sorry  
_ ** **_I am just like this!!  
_ ** **_If I like someone then I want them to be close  
_ ** **_Ask Mina and Armin :)))_ **

**_No I really like it,_ ** Jean said.   
**_I’m just not used to it  
_ ** **_It just made me nervous, that’s all_**. Jean wondered if he was being ridiculous. Was he overreacting? But he couldn’t help it. The icy hand at his throat had come back, and he felt a tingling in his nerves that wasn’t just from his crush on Marco.

 **_Ok, but I really don’t want you to be nervous :((_ ** Marco said.  
 **_I want you to be happy!! :D_ **

**_It makes me happy, don’t worry :3_ ** Jean said.  
 **_It’s just being around my parents._ **

**_:D :D :D_ **

That confirmed all was well on Marco’s end. Jean sat at the edge of his bed. After all the adrenaline of the day, he was exhausted. But he still wanted to try something. 

He turned off the overhead light so that just the lamp on his night table was on. He took off his shirt and slid down the band of his sweatpants just slightly. He stood in front of the full-length mirror and tilted his hips away from it; he tried to get the backlight from the lamp to highlight the v-line he’d been working on for a year. He snapped a couple of photos, adjusting the angle a little here and there, flexing a little harder. Almost…

 _God, here we go. Horseface takes a selfie._ He brushed his hair forward and let it hang in his eyes, he messed it up to make it look spikier. Click. _There. That doesn’t look pathetic, at least..._

 **_Since you sent me a photo earlier I figured I owed you one,_ ** Jean wrote. 

**_OH MY GOD!!  
_ _I LOVE IT SO MUCH :D  
_ _AHHHHHH YOU LOOK SO HOT!!  
_ _I am so excited to see you tomorrow  
_ _I am going to have a very good night if you know what I mean ;) ;) :)_**

Jean stared at the words for a minute. He thought about what Armin told him, about Marco being a good friend; he thought about how happy Mina was with Marco, and what Bert said about Eren having teased him all this time out of his own insecurities. He looked at the words until they burned an afterimage into his eyes. He took a deep breath, and tried to believe them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Marco lose at pool and go on a coffee date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have to say, I am just living for the comments people have been leaving me on this. I've been afraid that the story drags on too much, but I think it's just going to become a very long, detailed thing; it's been nice to have this AU to escape into and get lost in again during the endless lockdown purgatory, and I haven't really felt a need to rush it. 
> 
> I'm also glad to hear that the dialects 'work.' Levi and the other Russian speakers are based on my Russian teachers from college, and Marco's speech is actually based on a teacher of mine who was originally from France. (I lifted a few bits of Marco's personality from him as well.) I was trying to think of people I know who are very smart, but learned English late enough in life that certain parts of their speech are never going to sound completely native, and they sometimes have to get creative with how they say things; I wanted to capture that balance they have to strike. I'm a language nerd, so I get really into writing dialogues!

Jean had a problem when he woke up: he still wanted to smell better, but Marc and Claude were still asleep, and they’d know in an instant he’d swiped their cologne once he got home. Then they’d really give him shit. Jean remembered a small wooden box his mother kept in their downstairs bathroom. He typed a search into his phone:  _ can you use essential oils for men’s cologne _

Aha! According to the internet, yes. Jean examined the little bottles, opened them, and sniffed them.  _ Hey, that’s not bad, _ Jean thought. He poured cedar and sandalwood into his palm and smeared it under his arms, on his wrists, and on the back of his neck.  _ Shit. I actually like that.  _ It was woodsy and earthy, not so citrusy and green as whatever Marco wore that was so delirium-inducing. He hoped Marco would like it. He hoped it would smell good together…

Jean put the two tiny bottles in his gym bag. 

In the locker room, Reiner walked up to him and sniffed the back of his neck. 

Jean flinched. “Jesus, what the fuck, man?”

Reiner grinned, smug as ever. “You smell  _ good _ , man.” He nodded.

“That is so creepy, I swear to god--”

“What’s the occasion?” Reiner crossed his arms.

Jean took a deep breath. “I am just...working on myself.”

Reiner laughed. Jean wished he didn’t have such hair-trigger nerves. His friends all found it hilarious. 

In math class, Jean sat down next to Mina. Franz took the seat next to him and sniffed the air. “What’s that?” he asked. “Oh, it’s you,” he said to Jean. 

Mina leaned over and sniffed him, too. “Hm, it reminds me of this hippie bookstore in San Diego that my grandmother likes.”

_ Great _ , Jean thought.  _ I was going for ‘Warrior of Rohan,’ but I’ll take ‘metaphysical bookshop.’ Could be worse.  _

Jean pulled out his phone before the class started. “Hey, Franz, did you take this picture of Marco?” 

Marco’s latest shirtless selfie was of him holding the cat on the main staircase in the Kefkas’ house. There was a round, port-hole style window behind his head that gave him a halo-like glow. He held the cat in one arm, he rested his other hand on his chest. He looked like an Orthodox icon. 

**_This cat is my spirit brother!!_ ** The caption read.  
**_He loves attention!!  
_ ** **_And I also love attention!!_ **

“What the--no, I hadn’t even seen this,” Franz laughed at the photo. 

“Mm, Marco being Marco,” Mina said. 

“Wait, hang on,” Franz looked again. “How did he take this?” He squinted. “You’d have to be standing at the bottom of the stairs, but like, the camera would have to be ten feet up?”

“Yeah, I have no idea, that’s why I asked you,” Jean said.

“Oh my god, you’re right,” Mina said. She remembered the window from visiting the Kefkas’ house over Hannah’s birthday in the spring. “Marco, what the hell?” She laughed and rested her chin on her palm.

Jean looked at the comments.

Simon Sui  
 ** _This photo cured my depression. Thanks._** ** _  
_** ** _  
_**Tamar Vashevko  
 ** _I don’t know what religion this is from, but how do I convert?_**   
  
Armin Arlert  
 ** _Don’t act all holy, you’re still the mafia._**   
  
Annie Leonhardt  
 ** _Patron Saint of Selfie Taking_** ** _  
_** ** _  
_**Laeticia Trussardi  
 ** _Lucky cat! ;)_**

Stepan Kefka  
**_I am worried for the state of Rishi’s soul, he needs to learn some morals, and fast._ **

Jean typed a comment quickly, as the bell rang.  **_Who needs Jesus when they could have you?_ **

❄

“Wow,” Jean said, looking at his textbook in Franz’s basement. “I fucking hate math.” They sat on the couch, finishing up their assignments before they went to pick up Hannah and Marco from their practices at the rink. “Like, I feel like I should be better at it? But then I have no idea why.”

“Fair enough,” Franz said. 

It always felt strange to Jean walk into the iceplex without his hockey gear. When he wasn’t wearing his Trost Hockey sweatshirt, he usually wore a solid black one. It was a little warmer that day, just above freezing, so Jean decided to wear his heavy leather jacket over it instead of his parka. With a hat and gloves, it wasn’t too cold. And Jean already felt excessively warm just thinking about Marco…

“You look like you raided Levi’s closet,” Annie said to him. She was stretching along one of the benches. Jean wore a pair of acid washed gray jeans and his black winter boots. 

_ And you look like you are literally always smelling something foul _ , Jean thought. “No, if this were Levi’s jacket, it would only come down to here.” Jean gestured to his ribs, and Annie burst out laughing. For such a grim person, she had such a cute, girly laugh. Jean even earned a little snort from Annie’s coach, Niall, a humorless Brit who had chased Levi up the podium for decades. 

“Hey, I heard you landed your triple axel,” Franz said. He gave her a fist bump. 

“Gotta catch up with my girl,” Annie said. 

“Hang on, remind me which one of you is Tonya Harding, again?” Jean asked.

Annie gave him a withering glare. Franz pulled him into the north rink. 

Jean had no idea how Annie and Mikasa weren’t at each other’s throats. Maybe they were, and he just didn’t see it. He couldn’t imagine dating someone he competed with on the regular.

The little piano outro to Bring Me to Life twinkled over the speakers. Mina’s ponytail swept the ice; she lay in a dramatic backbend across Marco’s arms. Levi looked like a penguin, standing in the corner, nodding in approval. Marco and Mina got up, all smiles. He gave her a hug and kissed her on the cheek. 

It cut straight to Jean’s core to see him do that. He’d wanted to do that to Mina for so long. But Jean was not that kind of player in her life. He thought about the endless tangles of political marriages he had to read about for European History. In a way, Marco was like a strategically imported prince. They’d go much farther together than they ever could on their own. Jean was happy for them. But it still scratched an old wound. 

Marco waved to Jean and Franz. “Hey, I will be right there!” He vanished into the locker room. There weren’t a lot of male figure skaters in the iceplex at any given time. Those lesser-used locker rooms were the site of many of Jean’s fantasies. 

Hannah came in from the atrium, carrying her hockey bag; Franz took it off her shoulder and picked her up when he hugged her. Jean just sighed.  _ Sure is coupley in here. _

“You guys ready to lose?” Hannah said when Marco walked back out, skate bag in tow. Jean realized he hadn’t seen Marco in street clothes yet. He wore a tight-fitting pale gray sweater under his dark red coat, dark jeans, and brown leather shoes that were far too nice for the sludge of ice and salt waiting in the parking lot. Jean couldn’t tell if the black trim around his hood was real fur or not (he hoped it wasn’t). He felt completely outclassed, he assumed everything he was wearing cost as much as just one of Marco’s shoes. He just hoped Marco liked the ragged-casual look.

“Hey, be nice, Hannah,” Franz said. “Jean’s usually on my team, he’s not used to losing.” He slung her bag over his shoulder.

They waved goodbye to Mina as she left to join Annie and Sasha in the atrium. 

Marco just smiled. He kissed Jean just beneath his ear, and Jean thought he might melt into the rubber tiles on the rink floor. He’d waited all day for that. “I like what you are wearing,” Marco said. 

_ I was really hoping you would _ , Jean thought. All he managed was “Thanks.”

Marco ran his hand down Jean’s back and Jean immediately understood the gesture:  _ I’m going to take all of this off of you later.  _

Before they left for the rink, Jean arranged his hair so that it swept out from under the edge of his beanie hat just so, but it couldn’t look too intentional. Marco gave one of the spikes of Jean’s bangs a little tug.

“You look good in a hat,” Marco said as they walked to the car.

“Yeah, very art school,” Hannah said. 

Jean soaked up every compliment.

“Usually I cannot wear a hat,” Marco said. “If I do, then later I look like...ah, it is another bird…” He held his hand up over his forehead and bent his fingers forward. “Ah, what is it called…?”

“A cockatoo?” Jean guessed.

“Yes, I think that’s it,” Marco said.

“Oh god,” Jean said. “My mom has two of them as pets.”

“Really?” Marco’s eyes lit up. “I like these birds so much!”

Jean shook his head. “Not these two. They’re so annoying,” he said. “Lou Lou and Aminou...like two alarm clocks that never stop going off.”

Hannah laughed out loud.

“See? She knows,” Jean said.

“Oh come on, they’re not that bad,” Hannah said.

“They don’t live down the hall from you,” Jean said.

“Can they talk?” Marco asked. He had a look of childlike wonder on his face that Jean hated to ruin.

“‘Talking’ is putting it nicely,” Jean said.

“I must meet these birds!” Marco said.

“Ok, if you let me see you with cockatoo hat hair, I’ll introduce you to the birds,” Jean said.

“Hm...ok,” Marco said. 

Was this a chink in the armor, Jean wondered? Did Marco have one singular insecurity, unruly hair? Jean had to know. 

Jean gave Hannah the front passenger seat and took the seat behind Franz; Marco took off his coat, took the middle seat, and snuck his arm around Jean’s back. He leaned his head on Jean’s shoulder and let out a huge sigh.

“You ok?” Jean asked.

“I am great,” Marco said. “I have been skating all day, I could not be better.”

Armin was absolutely right about Marco being like a giant puppy. He was heavy, sort of mushing his body into Jean’s, pinning him against the seat. Jean wove his arm around Marco’s shoulders. 

“You going to be awake to play?” Jean asked.

Marco nodded. “I am just taking a break. You are warm,” he said. 

Jean could hear Franz and Hannah laughing under their breath in the front. Jean remembered when Hannah first started dating Franz, and how giddy and excited she was. She’d twittered on about him behind his back in French to Jean, and Franz begged him to translate once he realized she was talking about him. Jean was glad Hannah ended up with Franz. He had his obnoxious moments, but there was a huge difference between being good at talking shit, and actually treating people like shit. Franz was fully vetted in Jean’s book, he was reliable. 

Jean intertwined his fingers with Marco’s. He realized how skeptical he’d be if any of his female friends hooked up with a guy they’d known for less than a week, and he couldn’t tell why; he planned to do something he would never tell any of them to do. Did he really think they were capable of being hurt worse? Or were guys just prone to treating them worse? If someone hooked up with Mina and then ditched her, Jean would want them skinned alive. Anyone who took advantage of one of his friends, he’d want gutted and flayed. And yet he was willing to put up with the same treatment if Marco changed his mind, lost interest, moved on to someone else. The hole in his logic disturbed him. But Marco seemed supremely happy. 

In the rear view mirror, Jean saw Marco's reflection, his eyes shut peacefully, dozing on Jean's shoulder. Jean thought that at any second Marco might open his eyes and wink at him again, and it would be like a bullet to the chest. Instead, Marco just sighed again, and put a little more of his weight on Jean. It had the same effect. Jean had never seen anyone enjoy his presence so much. It was like being at an awkward gathering with relatives or family friends and suddenly the dog or cat just claimed him as their person. No explanation, no logic, they just sat on him, or nosed up to him for the rest of the night. Glomp. Jean was still a bit dumbfounded by this childlike, animal-like quality to Marco, that someone found him comfortable. 

Marco sat up for a second and yawned into the crook of his arm. He stretched his arms out, cracked his neck, then his wrists. "I am awake, I promise," he said. He wrapped his arms around Jean's torso and rested his head on Jean's shoulder again. "I have defeated this jet lag, I swear." Most of Jean's seat was occupied by Marco. "Hm…I want coffee," he said. 

Franz laughed. "You drink more coffee than anyone I've ever met."

"I cannot help it, it's in my blood," Marco said. His sweater was made out of a thin, soft cashmere that clearly revealed the contours of his arms and chest. Jean wondered if Marco was truly clueless about the sizing of his clothes, or if he just relished showing off that much--not that Jean minded. There was something curious about how soft the fabric was against Marco's hard body, like when a pitbull had a smooth, glossy coat. 

"Marco's about fifty percent coffee by volume," Hannah said.

"That explains a lot," Jean said. As they pulled into the Kefkas' garage, Jean didn't want Marco to stop touching him. But he didn't have to wait long. 

Sade was putting canapés on a tray when they walked in. Franz reached over to take one, but she swatted his hand away. "These are for book club, yours are in the fridge," she said. 

Franz opened the door and found a smaller plate. "Ooh, thanks Mom," he said. She kissed his head. 

"All right dears, have a good time tonight, I'll be back a bit late." She took the car keys from Franz. "Call your dad if you need anything, he should be home from the rink by eight." She hugged Marco and Hannah, and left for her gathering on the far north side.

The canapés vanished in seconds, and the four friends descended into the basement. 

❄

Jean watched the cue ball sink into a corner pocket with a loud thunk. Marco scratched the back of his head and laughed. 

"You know, one day, I am going to be really good at this game!" Marco said. "But I think today is not that day." They'd held their own for the first game, but lost. Marco had missed his first couple of shots in the second, and now they were far behind Hannah and Franz. 

"Don't worry about it," Jean said, shaking his head. He really didn't care about the pool games. It was just a reason to be around Marco, to see what he was like outside the rink and around his friends, and to have an excuse to be alone with him later. 

"All right, Hannah. Go in for the kill," Franz said. She looked down her cue like a lioness peering through reeds. 

"Ok, if Franz does not buy us food, I will," Marco said. He put his chin on Jean's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him from behind. Jean had to fight his face to hide how good it felt. Any time it hadn't been their turn, Marco had been touching him in some way, his arm around Jean's shoulder or his waist. Jean sensed Marco was letting Franz and Hannah set the tone for how touchy to get in the basement; he wasn’t doing anything to him that Franz wasn’t doing to Hannah. But any stranger walking in would have assumed they were looking at two couples, and Jean kept going along with it, letting himself get carried away. 

“Can’t say no to that,” Jean said. Marco wasn't that much taller than Jean, but he was tall enough that he could do things like this. Jean found it strange but also wonderful. He leaned back into Marco's chest and they watched Hannah clear the board. 

“Hannah, you are really good,” Marco said. He released his grip on Jean and gave her a high five. She stood on her toes and Franz leaned down to give her a kiss. Jean suspected that Franz dialed up the affection with Hannah when he was around, not to show off or rub it in, just to prove that he was doing his best to make her happy. Even still, Jean wasn’t sure Franz knew just how jealous Jean was of how happy the two of them were together. 

“Ok, that was still the warm-up, right?” Jean grabbed the triangular rack from its hook.

“Oh yeah. We’re just getting started,” Franz said. It was his turn to break. The balls scattered with a loud crack, but luckily he didn’t pocket any. The TV played in the background, sports news that no one was paying attention to. It filled the room with flickering bluish light. 

There was something unusual that Jean noticed about Marco in the basement, a kind of energy that radiated off of him. At first, Jean thought it was just the heat coming from his body, but even when they were slinking about the table looking for their shots, Jean had the uncanny feeling of still being held in this field emanating from Marco. He had no words for it. He remembered the sense that Marco had his own kind of gravity as he walked through the rink, and now Jean felt completely caught by it, an unavoidable pull that he kept giving into, finding his way back to Marco’s side after every turn. 

Jean had shot pool in this basement dozens of times. This was his natural habitat, Franz and Hannah were two of his oldest friends; he should have been completely at ease. But he told himself he was playing with a handicap. It was impossible to take his eyes off Marco, and he was sure the others all noticed. Jean was mentally taking off Marco’s sweater, thinking of the photos he had posted. He relished the other little details. His long eyelashes and impeccably groomed eyebrows. The gold signet ring he wore on his left hand. The Tag Heuer watch on a brown leather band. The thin gold chain around his neck that disappeared into his shirt. The faded patch on his back pocket from where he kept his wallet. You had to be a really good looking person to pull off a center part, Jean thought, but Marco made it look classy. 

Marco leaned down to take his turn. He was good at being bad at things, Jean thought; clearly trying, but not taking it too seriously. Marco made two shots in a row. He raised his hands in the air in celebration and it exposed a strip of midriff that Jean’s eyes darted to immediately. Jean stood up straight like nothing had happened when Marco put his arms back down, but Franz saw it and was holding back laughing.

Jean scowled at him.  _ Hey, I’ve seen you look at the girls at the beach, you don’t get to laugh at me, horndog.  _

“Nice shot,” Jean clapped Marco on the back and realized how out of breath he sounded.  _ Shit. _ Marco just hugged him. For all his improvement, they still lost. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there,” Jean said. 

“But I am mad because I am trying to win food for you!” Marco held one of Jean’s hands in both of his, and shook it a little as he spoke. “Oh well.” His smile returned. “I will keep trying!”

“Hey speaking of food, let’s order something, I’m getting hungry,” Hannah said. 

“Oh yeah, what do you guys want?” Franz asked. He reset the table. 

“Do you guys like Thai?” Hannah asked, scrolling through options on her phone. “Basil Patch is like, two blocks from here.”

“That sounds great!” Marco said. Jean was not surprised. Everything was great in Marco’s world.

“Here, you guys pick out what you want.” Hannah handed Jean her phone, and he flicked through the menu. Marco leaned against the pool table next to him and looked at the screen over his shoulder. 

“This looks good,” Marco pointed at a green curry that had two little chili pepper icons next to it. “Do you like spicy food?” 

Jean didn’t. He never mentioned this. “Uh, kind of,” he said.

“Do you want to maybe get two things and share them?” Marco asked.

“Sure, yeah, what else looks good?” Jean asked. 

“No, you should decide,” Marco said. 

“I...ok, sure.” Jean picked out a milder curry to temper the other one and hoped Marco wouldn’t realize that was why. He handed the phone to Franz. 

“What do you guys think, one or two more games before we go pick up our stuff?” Hannah asked. 

Jean shrugged. “Sure--”

“Yes,” Marco said, beaming. 

They did better, but still couldn’t beat Franz and Hannah. Marco hung his head in mock defeat. For a second he planted the top of his head between Jean’s shoulder blades, under his hood. “I will make it up to you,” he said.

Jean started to shake his head, but then caught himself, laughing. “You know what, I’ll take you up on that.” Marco stood back up and smiled as if they’d won.

Hannah checked her phone. “Hey, Franz and I can go get the food if you guys want to stay here--”

“No, I want to come with you,” Marco said. 

Jean’s face fell.  _ Ok, this is him being an excited puppy, not him turning down time alone with me, right? _

They put their coats and hats back on and traipsed down the snowy sidewalk. Marco held Jean’s hand much more tightly than usual. 

“Man, you are going to ruin your shoes,” Jean said   


“I made a bad decision,” Marco said in a high, light voice. But the real issue was slipping on the hard-packed snow, piled up between the salted, shoveled patches. “But I will be ok, I have you.”

“I don’t know, man, if I fall you’re coming down with me,” Jean said. Marco laughed and clung tighter onto his arm. Jean was doing a little better in his Palladium boots, but the snow and ice were still slick. “Man, for two blocks, this is a hike,” he said.

“Yeah, I...kinda misjudged how far it is,” Hannah said. It was more like six. 

“All right, forget this, I’m just going to walk in the street,” Franz said. 

“No, come on, we’re almost there,” Hannah said. She pulled him back onto the sidewalk. 

“Chicago is always like this in the winter?” Marco asked. He slid forward an inch on his heel. 

“Every block is different,” Franz said. He pulled open the heavy wooden door.

“Then I will have to walk with you just in case,” Marco said to Jean. “Ah, why is this different from falling on the ice?”

“Huh, I don’t know,” Jean said. “I guess out there I’m ready for it.”

Tall gold statues of deities with pointed, flame-like crowns stood on either side of the host stand. A tropical aquarium glowed behind it. They took their bags of food and began their harrowing journey back to the Kefkas’. 

The sky was clear and the street lights glowed bright above them, giving off a barely audible buzz. Jean noticed the little white clouds of their breath, the sound of the cars that passed and the rumble of the elevated train tracks in the distance. The cold air was sharp on his face and the pressure of Marco’s hand made his heart beat faster. Everything about the night seemed brighter and more vibrant. Was it always like this, and he just didn’t pay attention, lost in some fantasy or some spiral dance of anxiety? 

“Oh hey, that place is really good if you guys still want coffee later.” Franz was not subtle with his hint. He nodded toward a cafe on the corner, a converted townhouse with a frozen-solid birdbath in the snow-filled front yard. 

“We should go!” Marco said. Then he nearly slipped and fell again. Thankfully the food and Marco’s tailbone were both safe.

They ate on the couches in the basement. 

“Ok, those little chili peppers are clearly just there to flatter the white people, because this curry is not that bad at all,” Jean said.

“Ah, yeah, it is a little different than I expected,” Marco said, picking up a piece of broccoli with his chopsticks. 

“Is it ok?” Jean asked, suddenly worried.

“Yeah, of course. I still think it is good,” Marco said. “I like it all a lot.” He took a spring roll from its wax paper bag.

Franz and Hannah just glanced at each other. Jean knew he was being jumpy and ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. 

They played a few more games, but switched up the teams. Canadians versus Brunettes; Team Freckles versus Team Titans. Marco was steadily getting better, but Hannah was easily the most accurate player. 

Franz looked at Marco for a moment. “You look like you’re having coffee withdrawal,” he said. 

“You’re kicking us out already?” Jean asked. 

“Mm, kinda,” Franz said, smiling. Jean knew he wanted time alone with Hannah. 

“I don’t know, you ready to face the elements again?” Jean asked Marco, pretending he wasn’t sweating at the prospect of being alone with him, even if it was in public. 

“I am very brave when it comes to coffee,” Marco said, putting his cue back in the rack on the wall. “Nothing can stop me.” 

“All right, I’m going to hang onto you this time, then,” Jean said. He felt Marco’s eyes burning into him as they walked up the stairs. He slipped his boots back on. “Do you really like coffee that much, or is coffee a code word for something else?” Jean asked.

Marco grinned and glanced around the room. “I mean, I like a lot of things.” He put on his coat. “But, yes, coffee is one of them.” He had a mischievous look on his face. He held Jean’s gaze for a moment.

“What?” Jean asked.

“I like looking at you, that’s all,” Marco said. “Is that ok?”

Jean took his hat from his jacket pocket and put it back on. “Yeah, I’m just not used to it.”

“That is ok, I will fix that,” Marco said. He followed Jean out the door, back out into the chilly December air.

❄

It was strange to Marco that someone as physically strong and unusually beautiful as Jean was as nervous as he was. He was getting better, more relaxed, but there was still something about him that seemed tense and fragile. Armin called that “being high-strung.” Sometimes when a person was hurt, Marco thought, it was like a sound that never stopped playing, a scream or a shatter or a high music note that was trapped in their body, maybe for years. It could fade, or be ignored; one got used to it. But it was always there, blending with and tinting everything else that came from that person. Marco ached to know what it was about Jean that was causing this delicate, faint ringing of pain that he sensed in the background of everything Jean said and did.

Jean was so deft and masterful on the ice, but when he stood and walked there was something closed off and stiff about him. Armin called that “being a fish out of water.” Marco wrote down all the idioms Armin gave him in his English notebooks. The ends of Jean’s hair were a light, sandy blonde, bleached from the long-gone summer sun, and the green and orange-tinted street lights above them turned his pale eyes unusual colors as they walked.

“You are not cold, with just this jacket?” Marco asked him.

“Ok, well...maybe a little, now that it’s dark,” Jean said. He smiled at the ground.

“That is ok, I will fix that, too.” Marco gave Jean’s hand a squeeze. 

Jean nodded. “Cool. Got my own personal repairman here.”

“I like to fix things,” Marco said. “Ok, well, not everything can be fixed. But I like to try.”

The hanging sign outside the cafe read ‘The Bourgeois Pig,’ with a little gold silhouette of a pig suspended by a ribbon in the center. The warm, fragrant air poured onto them when they opened the door, the lights were low and amber. A few people stood ahead of them in line. Marco looked around at the shelves packed with old books in muted colors, the eccentric paintings in thick gold frames on the walls, and the brass light fixtures. A pastry case filled with cakes glowed and buzzed in front of them; the shelves next to them were packed with jars of loose teas. 

“This reminds me of my grandmother’s house near Lugano,” Marco said. He noticed the cast brass drawer pulls and the dark wooden floor.

“Yeah, definitely got that ‘grandma’s house’ vibe going,” Jean said. “I like it, though.”

The menu was hand-written in chalk above the counter. Marco squinted and tried to make sense of the erratic cursive. 

“Hey, what can I get for you guys?” The barista had dyed, dark red hair and thick hipster glasses. He was kind of cute, Marco thought. But Jean was hotter. 

“Ah, I’m not sure, I like everything,” Marco said, still studying the menu. “Have you, ah, got something new, or maybe something you like the best?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a hazelnut latte we’ve started doing for Christmas, if you guys like flavored coffee? I think it’s good,” the young man said.

“Can you guys make that decaf?” Jean asked. The barista nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Marco said.

“Cool, so, two of the lattes, one regular, one decaf?” the barista asked. “And what’s the name for your order?”

“Ah, Marco.” He pronounced as he would have in Italian. He never tried to Anglicize his name, it sounded too strange coming from his own mouth. 

“All right, that’s gonna be eight fifty,” the barista said. Marco took his wallet from his pocket. “I’ll bring those out to you.”

“Wait, I was going to get mine,” Jean said. He looked confused.

Marco smiled and tried not to laugh. “Jean...it’s just a coffee.”

“Are you sure?” Jean looked unnecessarily worried.

“Yes, really,” Marco said. He left a twenty dollar bill on the counter and grabbed Jean’s hand, now free of their gloves. He pretended not to hear the barista when he asked him to come get his change. “Is this ok?” Marco led them to the table in the front window. The students sitting there got up while Marco and Jean were at the counter.

“Yeah, this is great,” Jean said. They hung their coats on a hook, and slid onto a bench set into the exposed brick wall, with a big cluster of needlepoint pillows behind them. 

Benches were good, Marco thought. You could get a lot closer to someone on a bench than in normal chairs. From where they sat, they could see into the next room, full of students with piles of books and small groups of people talking. A gas lantern burned right outside the window in front of them. The sidewalk and street were quiet. 

Marco leaned back and took a deep breath. “I like it here, this is nice,” he said, noticing the little chandelier hanging above them. He turned to Jean. “This has been a really good day.”

“Yeah?” Jean left his hat on, but Marco didn’t mind. It was cute. It seemed just like the kind of thing someone who was a little insecure and trying to look edgy would do. So it was perfect. 

“Yeah, that was fun with Franz and Hannah. But now I am glad to have you all to myself.” Marco said. Jean laughed uneasily. Marco just looked at him for a moment. “You seem surprised that I like you.”

Jean looked like he was caught in a trap. Then the barista walked over with their drinks on wide saucers. The one he set in front of Jean had a white fern drawn on the surface; Marco’s had some kind of animal face, like a cat or a bear, Marco couldn’t quite tell which, although he found it cute. 

“Hey, you forgot your change,” the barista said. 

Marco shook his head. “No, keep it,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

Marco nodded.

“Well...ok, thanks, man. We appreciate it.” The barista walked back to the counter. Another server waved at Marco and Jean. 

“That was really nice of you,” Jean said. 

Marco shrugged. It wasn’t his money anyway. 

Jean looked at the latte art and squinted. “You think he was flirting with you? With that little...cat...thing?” He glanced at Marco’s cup. 

Marco laughed. There it was again. That high-pitched ringing. ‘No, I think it is because this drink has the caffeine, and yours does not.”

Jean sighed. “Ok, your version makes more sense.” 

“But, hey, even if he was flirting with me,” Marco put his hand on Jean’s knee, “too bad for him.”

Jean was smiling, but he looked down at the table. Marco picked up his drink with his free hand and tried a sip. It tasted like Christmas. The memories of his grandparents’ house grew stronger. “This is so good,” Marco said. “Ah, I am so happy. This is perfect.”

Jean looked at him. “Man, what is your secret? I mean seriously. You are like, the happiest person I’ve ever met.” He sipped his coffee and raised an eyebrow. “Shit. Wow. This is really good.”

“I don’t know,” Marco said. “I think there is no secret, really. I just learned this from my parents.”

“Really? Your parents are like this, too?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Marco said. It was so relaxing to sit right up next to someone, to feel their warmth. Jean reached for his hand under the table. “We are all very different, actually. I say I learned this from them because I don’t want to be like them. I cannot be miserable...angry all the time, you know? It is just...it’s not how I want to be, how I want to live. My parents are really unhappy people, actually. So I tried to ask myself, how I could be different from them.”

“Oh. I had no idea,” Jean said. “But you just...decide to be happy?”

“Yeah. Mostly,” Marco said. He took another sip of the divine brew. 

“And it works.”

“Well, not every moment, but a lot of the time, yeah,” he said. “I mean, I am still a person, I am not always happy. But it helps that I am doing something that I really love every day, you know?”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Jean said. “If I didn’t play hockey, I don’t know what I’d do. God, I’m like the exact opposite of you, though. Everything can be fucking fine and dandy and I’m still on edge, like the goddamn sky is falling. I don’t know why I’m like this, I wish I could just shut it off for once.”

Marco rubbed Jean’s back and rested his hand in the warm spot underneath his hood. He felt Jean relax a little. “You know, for a long time, I was thinking there is something I can say that will make it stop. That will make it go away. But there is nothing. Armin has told me this so many times. Sad for me, but I can’t fix it.”

Marco hated that Armin was right; he needed a different tactic. Marco figured that if you could just shine the truth at someone over a long enough period of time, they’d eventually warm up to it. It had kind of worked with Armin. He hadn’t been totally healed of all his fears, but he and Marco had become very close. Marco had gotten a best friend out of it. It was worth the time. He supposed he had no choice but to beam reality at Jean and wait for him to thaw out and come home. 

“Man, if you ever do find that thing, tell me. I hate being like this,” Jean said. He took a long sip.

“When you get tired of looking at the sky, I will be here,” Marco said. 

Jean smiled. “You must have been some kind of monk in a past life or something.”

“I don’t know, I am just me," Marco said. "I saw my parents were always angry, so I decided, when I was a little kid, I wanted to do something different in life.” He folded his arms and rested them on the table. The walls were covered in curiosities, little shadowboxes and vintage prints. “I tried to understand, for such a long time, what is it that makes people happy, but it made no sense to me. There was like no pattern, or no rule. So I just thought, it is a choice then. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to explain it,” Jean said. “I’m just glad you’re happy. Maybe I can soak it up from being around you.”

“Being around you makes me happy,” Marco said. He glanced at the counter. “You know, it is not hard to do things like leave the change behind like that,” he said. “My mother is always sending me money and things because she feels guilty. I don’t ask for it, but she does it anyway, she is just like this.” He glanced at his shoes. “She is always buying things for me. I cannot even use it all. She has a lot of money, it is a good thing, but she is not a happy person.”

“What does she do?” Jean asked.

“She works at a technology company,” Marco said. “She sells softwares and she is a consultant, so, like, she is a very successful person, in that way. But she is always with these guys...like every three months she is dating a different guy, and they are just...I hate them.” He felt the edge of his own anger, a dark space the light had not yet been able to crack. 

“I take it your folks are divorced then?” Jean’s voice was soft, his shoulder and thigh were touching Marco’s. 

“Yeah, for a very long time. And my mother, she is saying it is all her fault, so she thinks she makes it up to me when she buys these things,” Marco said. “But I don’t care. You know, being in China and Korea with Armin, it was kind of nice that I did not see her. And her strange men.”

“Man, I’m sorry. That sounds like it really sucks,” Jean said. “What about your dad?”

“I do not really see him,” Marco said. “You know, one thing that is really nice, skating with someone like Mina...I have no brothers or sisters, so when I have a skating partner who is really good, and she and I are good friends, it is like now I have a sister. And then Armin is like a brother to me. So, yeah, I don’t really have what I want with my family, but it’s ok. I will just make it for myself.” 

Jean’s face fell as Marco described his family; he looked distraught. These weren’t the stories he was hoping to hear, Marco thought. 

“Yeah, Armin seems like a cool guy,” Jean said. “Mina...well, I mean, we’re just friends, but she’s special to me.” Then he smirked. “I’m pretty sure she went to prom with me last year because she felt bad for me, though.”

“What?” Marco gave Jean a little shove. “That is not true at all! Mina loves you.” Jean’s eyes were wide; Marco shook his head. “It is so clear when she talks about you,” he said. “I asked her to tell me about all of her friends, I want to get to know everyone, you know? And she started to tell me about you, and it is so obvious. She really cares about you. She doesn’t feel bad for you, Jean.”

Jean looked at the table and nodded. “Ok, I’m gonna take your word for it.”

“Yes! You should believe me! I am right about a lot of things, you know!” He laughed and nudged Jean’s ribs. 

“What did Mina say about me?” Jean asked in a pitiful voice.

“She said...ah, that you are a really sensitive person, actually,” Marco said. Jean looked surprised. “And that this is hard for you. Because you feel things very strongly, but it is not really possible to talk about them.”

“She said that?” Jean’s voice was faint.

Marco leaned back against the wall. “Yes, and that you never show anyone your artwork.”

Jean rested his face in his palm. “God. She reads me like a fucking book.”

“And also we think you are weird,” Marco said. Jean looked concerned. “Because you are a very good-looking guy, and you do not think so at all.”

“Oh my god.” Jean deflated over the table, he slouched over his coffee. “Not this again.”

Marco laughed. “But I am totally serious!”

“Man, I don’t know, I guess I just got made fun of too much as a kid, I don’t even know what else to tell you about that,” Jean said. 

“I have had a lot of people in my life tell me I am ugly and annoying,” Marco said.

“Are you kidding me? You?” Jean looked distressed, but at least he was laughing.

“Sure,” Marco said. He cupped his hands behind his ears. “Armin tells me I had to, ah, ‘grow into my ears.’”

“Psh. That was mean,” Jean said. 

“No, it’s true!” Marco said. It didn’t hurt to remember it anymore. “It looked really funny when I was a kid. And then of course…” he looked at the backs of his hands.

“What, your freckles?” 

Marco nodded.

“Kids used to make fun of you for that?” Jean looked incensed.

“Yeah, all the time,” Marco said. But he felt no reaction to it now, remembering. 

“God, why are kids such little shits? Just savages, you know.” Jean picked up Marco’s hand and ran his thumb over the back of it. Touching Jean was fun for Marco. Being touched back was better. But Jean initiating things was the best. “I like your skin, I think it’s beautiful,” Jean said, still looking angrily at Marco’s hand. 

Marco smiled, he studied Jean’s profile for a moment. “So, I cannot stop you from being anxious, I have given up on this, but...I think I can maybe convince you that you are hot,” he said with a grin. Jean had a pained look on his face. “Ok, here, I will show you,” Marco said. He took his phone from his pocket; Jean shook his head. “So, last night, you sent me this photo, right?” 

“I can’t look,” Jean muttered. 

“No, but it is a really good photo!” Marco clasped his hand around Jean’s on the table. “Ok, so, I did not really sleep very much last night, and I will tell you, it was not the coffee, it was this photo.” He pointed to the screen. Jean covered his mouth, his nostrils flared with embarrassment. “No, but look,” Marco said. He turned the image black and white with a filter he used on himself and then mirrored it. “Imagine you see this somewhere, on the internet. What do you think of this guy? Hm? You do not think he is really hot?” Marco bit his lip. “I think he is.”

“Oh my god, do you actually want me to answer that question?” Jean asked. Marco smiled and nodded. Jean cringed. “I can’t.”

“Come on,” Marco said. “You don’t think he is good looking? Not even at all?” 

“He’s...shit, I don’t know. I like his hair I guess?” Jean sank down along the wall. 

Marco grabbed Jean’s forearm and sighed. “Ok, this is really bad. You are going to need a lot of help. I will do my best.”

Jean tilted his head back and shut his eyes. Then he turned to Marco and grabbed his shoulder. “All right, I think we just have to accept some things about each other here, ok?” He looked frustrated, but in a playful way. “You think your English is bad, and I’m still not totally crazy about how I look.”

“But my English is bad,” Marco said. 

“Oh my god, Marco.” Jean put his face in his hands, then looked up and shook his open palms at the ceiling. “No, it’s really not.” He turned to Marco, put one hand on his knee, and tapped his thumb and forefinger together with the other. “Your English is  _ excellent _ .”

Marco laughed. “No, you and Armin tell me this, but you are lying because you are being polite. And you are very nice guys, but you are wrong, it is not that good.”

“Ok.” Jean folded his hands and pressed his knuckles to his lips. “You know how you feel about your English? That’s how I feel about all of this.” He made a sweeping gesture up and down his chest.

“Well that is just awful,” Marco said, still smiling. “That is not right at all.” He took another sip of his coffee. “You know what is so bad for me about English...ok, so, when Armin talks, he is very clever, right? If he wants to say something, he has a lot of different ways he can do this, right? Like this is the point,” Marco set his mug down and pressed his fingertip to the table, “and this is Armin skating around the point.” He made little circles around it with his other index finger. “But for me, I cannot do this!” He turned his palms up. “I cannot be so clever like that! I have to go straight to the point.” He mashed his fingertip against the table again.

“Yeah, ok, but I  _ like _ this about you,” Jean said. “You’re...I don’t know, you just say what you think, you don’t play games with people.”

“I cannot play these games, it is such a waste of time,” Marco said. “For me it is miserable. If I think something, I will just say it.”

“So what about when you speak Italian?” Jean asked, sipping more of his coffee. “Are you more like this, or are you more like Armin?” Marco liked the way Jean was looking at him, holding him in his gaze. He had a sexy stare, Marco thought. He was probably also completely unaware of this. 

“Oh, I am the same, I am like this.” Marco said. He pointed at Jean. “But in Italian, I have a choice! In English, I do not! That is a really big difference!” 

“I like how you speak English,” Jean said. “You have a great voice. You have a great accent. Honestly, don’t change how you talk, it’s perfect as it is.”

“Ok, well you do not need to change either,” Marco said.

Jean pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. He was so cute when he was flustered. There was a moment of silence. 

Jean glanced down at Marco’s hand and took it again. “What’s your ring from?” 

“Ah, my grandfather gave this to me,” Marco said. “This is his initials. He has passed away, it was maybe two years ago now? But, ah, when I was little, we were very close.” China had been a welcome distraction from his absence. 

“This is the one who spoke French with you?” Jean asked. 

Marco nodded. “Yeah. He was a really cool guy. He was not so much like my mother, I guess that is a good thing,” Marco said, tilting his head. “He was not a skater, but he was a skier, for many years.” He looked out across the quiet street. Only a few people walked past, here and there. “My mother, she actually changed my name, when she and my father split up. She changed it so it would be like his,” Marco said.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Jean asked.

“Before, I had my father’s family name. But she changed it, so we both had this last name, Bodt, again,” Marco said. 

“Huh. I was going to say, it doesn’t sound very Italian,” Jean said. 

“No, my grandmother is Italian, but my grandfather is from the western part of Switzerland. So it is all kind of mixed together for us, where we are from. But yeah, I think, ah, my grandfather knew me very well.” Marco smiled. “He also gave me this.” Marco pulled the charm on the end of his necklace out from his sweater. “Do you know this?” he asked Jean.

Jean held the little gold charm and looked at it; the metal was hot from Marco’s skin. It was a Saint Sebastian medal, the patron saint of athletes, but also a favorite of gay artists over the centuries. “Yeah, I grew up Catholic,” Jean said, smiling faintly. “I remember Sebastian...good choice,” he said. 

He looked up at Marco, still holding the charm, like a tiny gold leash. Marco looked at Jean’s fingers, then his lips, then his eyes. _ Are you getting my point? Because I don’t think I even need to say it.  _

Jean gave the charm a little pull. Marco put one hand on the inside of Jean’s thigh. With the other he reached for the back of Jean’s neck, and kissed him. He was subtle and slow, he knew how not to ruin it, to blend in with the atmosphere and not shock any possible onlookers. Jean smelled like the woods and tasted like Christmas. For all his pointed features, his lips and face were warm and soft.

Jean pulled Marco closer. He was a good kisser, Marco thought. Unhurried. Yielding. Tender. There was an easy give and take, and every so often Jean pulled back just slightly to let his lips touch Marco’s again, which Marco liked. 

Marco took a deep breath, sinking into the kiss. He loved the sensation of falling while he was holding someone. But in the background, there was still that faint, distant ringing… _ Maybe words will not work on you _ , Marco thought,  _ but this will work. I will show you. You are so good.  _


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smutty chapter! Jean and Marco hook up in Jean's car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut ensues from here on out. 
> 
> I was looking back over parts of Break my Fall to get my sequence of events right and see which scenes I needed to carry over, and this is fic so clearly that one's older brother...I loved writing that one, but this one is just heavier. I'm trying to keep a solid balance of fluff, angst, and smut, but let me know if there's anything you want to see more of. 
> 
> I'm considering writing some one-shots and short stories set in this universe...a beach road trip for the four main boys, maybe some Reibert whump with Bert hurting his knee, some enemies-to-lovers Mikasa/Annie that digs into why they're so catty around everyone else...just playing with ideas.

It wasn’t Jean’s first kiss. But it was the first one that mattered to him. 

For a moment, Jean forgot where he was. Everything he was worried about slipped out of his awareness. The cafe around him disappeared, and all he could perceive was Marco: his lips and tongue, the heat from his body, the pressure of his hands. In the car and at Franz’s house, Marco was like a human tidal wave, drowning him with affection, but here, he was discreet, doing things Jean’s way. Jean could feel how much Marco was holding back, just giving him a taste, a preview of what he was capable of. Marco knew better than to cause a scene, and that made Jean trust him more. 

And _that_ made Jean want him more. Marco was gently drinking Jean in, savoring the experience of kissing him. If it felt this good to be tasted, what would it feel like to be devoured? Jean pulled Marco closer, one arm around his back, his other hand grabbing his hip, and he felt Marco sigh. He kissed Marco a little deeper, and felt Marco’s body soften. He slid his hand higher up on Marco’s back and felt his heartbeat through the soft fabric of his sweater. 

Marco was so much more confident (and Jean assumed more experienced) that Jean had been letting him take the lead and set the pace on how much they touched each other. But Jean kept noticing Marco’s reactions, a sigh here, a nuzzle there, and realized that even though he was trying to be subtle, Marco adored being touched and held. Marco was so enthusiastic before that Jean hadn’t fully registered just how sensitive Marco was. 

Jean drew back a tiny bit and held Marco’s bottom lip in his teeth for a second. Marco smiled. He kissed Jean’s nose, which made Jean laugh, then kissed his mouth again. 

Jean realized that if Marco had been totally satisfied with how things went while he was in Asia, he’d be dating Armin. Just because he seemed like the kind of person a lot of people wanted, that didn’t mean he was actually getting what he wanted. Marco didn’t come across as desperate, but you didn’t have to be starving to be hungry. Marco sorted through Franz and Mina’s friends like an osprey dive-bombing a fish. 

Jean heard a clinking sound as a server walked past with a tray for a table in the other room. He pulled back for a moment and glanced around. 

“Jean,” Marco whispered, his fingertips touching Jean’s face. “No one is watching.” Jean looked down and put his forehead on Marco’s collarbone. Marco wove his fingers through the strands of Jean’s hair that escaped from his hat. “I don’t really care if there is someone watching,” Marco said.

“I wish _I_ didn’t care,” Jean said with a sigh. He sat up, his arms loose around Marco’s waist. “I wish I had somewhere else I could go with you,” he said in a lower voice. “Besides, like...my car.”

“I will get into your car with you,” Marco said.

Jean laughed. “Are you serious?”

Marco shrugged. “Why not?”

“Uh, well, it might be kind of awkward and cold,” Jean said.

“But it will be awkward anywhere we go,” Marco said with a smile, brushing a lock of hair out of Jean’s face. “And I think...I will probably not be cold.” He gave Jean’s thigh a little squeeze.

Jean took a deep breath. “I mean, let’s try it if you want to.”

“Of course I want to.” Marco ran his thumb along Jean’s cheekbone. It was starting to snow again outside; small, sparkly flakes rushed to the ground. “Ah, but first, there is something really important we have to do,” Marco said. Jean was confused. Marco took his phone from his pocket; he’d ignored it almost all day. “Take a photo with me,” he said, opening the camera.

“Oh my god.” Jean sank his face into his hand.

Marco tugged on his hood. “No, come on! We look really good right now! We need a picture.”

Jean looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “All right. Fine.” 

Marco put his arm around Jean’s shoulder. “Here, you have to hold it, and then I will push the button. Are you ready?”

Jean shook his head, then smirked at the little glass screen, leaning into Marco. It turned bright white, then showed their faces.

“Wow,” Marco said. “I was right. This is good.” Marco looked cheerful as ever, but Jean’s expression was more like a cat that had just eaten a canary, a little devilish.

“Yeah, that’s...wow. That’s not bad,” Jean said. He looked different, this was not his usual forced smile, but something more wily and spontaneous that he didn’t think he could ever recreate on purpose. He liked it better than any photo he’d ever seen of himself. 

“You look like a rock star,” Marco said. He kissed Jean on the cheek, then opened up Facebook.

“Wait, you’re posting it now?” Jean said.

“Yeah, is that ok?” Marco asked. “I want my friends to see I am enjoying Chicago!”

“I...sure,” Jean said. Then he realized that if they had a photo from the cafe with that timestamp on it, it’d be easier to claim they’d been there the entire time. 

**_I only need three things to be happy!!_ ** Marco typed as the caption. **_And one of them is coffee!!_ **He tagged Jean and their location. 

Jean squinted. “Wait, what are the other two?”

“Ice skating and a hot guy,” Marco said. He looked Jean up and down and squeezed his knee.

“Fair enough,” Jean said. “Ok, so...now I have a really serious question for you.”

“Hm, yes?” Marco hit ‘post.’

“Why do you always use two exclamation points?”

“Oh, that?” He put his phone back in his pocket. “It is because, when you write this,” he tapped the air twice, “you can make a little smiling face, from these two points at the bottom.” He drew a curved line between the points in the air. “And then it is like extra happy!” He beamed. “And it's like there is a smiling face hidden at the end of the sentence, you see?” He held his hand out flat, his palm down. “Like he is looking at you from behind the table, or like behind a wall. It’s his little eyes.” Marco was completely sincere. “And then maybe the other lines are, like, rabbit ears, or something? Or eyebrows. But either way, he is very excited.”

Jean started laughing and couldn’t stop, pitched forward over the table. This time a few people from the other room actually did glance over to see what was going on. Jean could not explain why he found it so funny. Something was cracking inside him. Marco crossed a threshold of absurdity that sent Jean over the edge. 

“Jean?” Marco lay his hand on Jean’s back. He was still laughing. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean said. He sat back against the wall and took a deep breath. “You are just...you are something else, man.” He shook his head. “I’ve never met anybody like you.”

❄

“Ok, we gotta walk slow, ‘cause there’s a bunch of black ice hidden under this snow, and I don’t remember where it is,” Jean said. Marco held onto his arm.

“Don’t worry,” Marco said, nosing Jean’s face. “I will go slow with you,” he said in a breathy voice.

Jean rolled his eyes. “Seriously, though. We need to get you some actual boots.”

“I know,” Marco sighed. “My old ones at home in Turin no longer fit me.” 

“You sure you don’t want a hat while you’re at it?” Jean asked. 

Marco smoothed down his hair protectively. “No, I am good,” he said. He looked at Jean’s feet as they treaded carefully down the sidewalk. “I like this kind of boots you have. Maybe I will find some like this that are brown or tan? It will match with my clothes better.”

“Yeah, if I’m not in hockey gear, pretty much all my clothes are black,” Jean said. 

"You look good wearing black," Marco said. It made Jean smile. “But you probably look better wearing nothing.”

Jean scoffed and shook his head. It had gotten substantially colder, and Jean’s body was tense, but he didn’t want to admit it. He sensed that Marco could tell. They reached a crunchy, snowy patch of sidewalk and Marco stopped, standing in the pool of gold light from the street lamp above. He pulled Jean toward him and put his arms around him. For a moment, Marco just stood there, hugging Jean, saying nothing. Then he kissed Jean’s cheek, then his lips again. 

In the empty street, there was no one to offend. Marco kissed Jean harder than he had in the cafe, clutching Jean’s body to him tightly, and Jean wondered, where do you draw the line between passion and desperation?

He didn’t care that it was cold. This was for him. Not a joke, not a dare, not a skit. Marco kissing him that night was the first time Jean had ever felt truly wanted. 

Marco rested his forehead against Jean’s and shut his eyes. "Sorry," he said. "I just needed to do that."

"Don't apologize," Jean said, his hips still pressed into Marco's. "I like kissing you, I want to do more of it." But he shivered involuntarily and Marco decided it was time to keep walking. 

Jean's car was parked a block away from Franz's house. He started it, turned off the headlights and internal lights, and turned the heat on full-blast. The windshield and rear window were covered in a faint dusting of snow. Jean climbed into the backseat with Marco and prayed for the heat to warm up already. 

"Are you ok?" Marco asked. 

"I'm fucking freezing," Jean said, laughing. "God, this is what I get for trying to show off."

"I still like your jacket," Marco said. He took off his gloves and slid his hands inside Jean's jacket to put his arms around Jean's waist. "Ok, where was I?" Marco asked. He pulled Jean onto his lap, and Jean draped his arms around Marco's shoulders. 

Jean lost track of time kissing Marco, his body gradually relaxing as he warmed up. With no one around, Jean could finally melt into it, finally have the kiss he wanted. Marco seemed deliriously happy and not in a rush, taking his time feeling Jean’s body. He traced the hard lines in Jean’s abdomen with his thumbs; he slipped his hands under Jean’s t-shirt and explored the terrain of muscles in Jean’s back. After a few minutes it was sweltering in the car, and Jean had to reach over and turn the heat down; he was grateful that the cedar oil hadn’t failed him yet. The windows were covered in fog and edged in snow. Marco took off his coat and hung it from the hook above the window, so Jean did the same. 

The car was a warm, dimly-lit capsule; not ideal, but it would work. "Now we have, ah, what is it called…a fortress?" Marco said. Jean didn't correct him. He was too distracted. He'd never been so hard in his life as he was from kissing Marco. 

Marco reached for the ends of his sweater and pulled it off in one clean movement.

“You’ve had some practice doing that,” Jean teased.

Marco flattened his hair down again. The headlights from a passing car made the inside of the jeep glow for a few seconds. Marco was not one of those ‘inflatable’ guys who looked puffy and swollen to Jean, all bulk but no skill. Jean was sure that all but a few of his teammates would be envious of Marco’s body. The light glinted off Marco’s necklace, shadows moved across his arms, chest, and the substantial bulge in his jeans. “I like to be naked,” Marco said.

“I can see why,” Jean said. He shook his head. 

“What?” Marco sat on his knees, straddling Jean’s legs, while Jean sat back, propped up on his forearms.

“You know, you look good in your photos and all, but two dimensions really doesn’t do you justice,” Jean said, proud of himself for still being able to form words. “God, you’re so hot,” Jean groaned. “It’s not even funny.” Marco looked straight in Jean’s eyes with a look of supreme satisfaction on his face. Jean realized that just because Marco believed it didn’t mean he didn’t still need to hear it. _Ok, if you’re going to pelt me with compliments, two can play that game._

Marco leaned forward and grabbed the hem of Jean’s sweatshirt. “Can I take this off of you?”

“Yeah,” Jean gasped more than said. He sat up and took off his hat, he let Marco undress him. Marco pulled Jean’s sweatshirt and t-shirt over his head, and as Marco scanned his body, Jean caught a flash of minotaur intensity in Marco’s eyes, something Jean sensed couldn’t be faked. Marco undid Jean’s belt and began to slide his jeans off of him; Jean kicked off his boots and socks, and finished pulling off his jeans and underwear. His heart raced and his throat was tight. Jean was painfully erect, and now there was no hiding anything. 

Marco bit his lip and looked at Jean’s cock. “So this is the real reason they call you a horse, no?” He nodded his head, admiring, while Jean laughed uneasily. “Because you are not a ‘My Little Pony,’” Marco said. “That is...lies.” He held Jean’s torso in his hands, but then his greedy smile turned to a look of concern. “You have so many bruises and scars on your body,” he said, looking Jean up and down. 

Jean shrugged, he felt tense and nervous again. “It’s just part of playing hockey.”

“I know, but...this is a lot,” Marco said. He ran his thumb lightly down a long slice across Jean’s hip bone, and noticed a similar scar just beneath his collarbone. Blade edges, from crazy collisions over the years. “I did not notice this so much in your picture that you sent me.”

“It’s just how we play,” Jean said. “It’s why we win all the time, we play rough.”

Marco kissed a bruise next to Jean’s navel, from the butt of another player’s stick. He found one on Jean’s ribs, from an elbow. “Does it hurt, when this happens?” 

“Yeah, but....it doesn’t matter,” Jean gasped lightly at the touch. “It’s for the game. You get over it, you play through it.”

Marco kissed the scar on Jean’s hip, and dragged his lips to Jean’s inner thigh, to another fresh bruise. “How did this one happen?” Marco asked, his voice soft and breathy.

Jean winced as Marco kissed it, not from pain, but arousal. “Just from...going over the boards. Something stupid. That one’s...nothing.”

Marco leaned forward and kissed Jean’s neck, which made him shiver. He kissed Jean’s ear and the side of his face, the scar on his chest, and his sternum. 

“What are you doing?” Jean asked, his breath heavy.

“Mm...I am convincing you that I want you,” Marco said, looking up with a grin. He kissed Jean’s navel and his hipbone, then took Jean into his mouth. 

Jean’s body went stiff from the touch. He felt overwhelmed by the heat and wetness of Marco’s mouth, the pull of lips. 

“Are you ok?” Marco came up for air. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just...uh, I don’t think it’s going to take long, you know?” Jean said. “For you to...get me off…”

“That’s ok,” Marco said. “Then we can just do it again.” Jean’s eyes widened. “What? I want to make you come a lot of times,” Marco said.

“Ok...I...am just going to let you do your thing, ‘cause you clearly know what you’re doing.” Jean took a deep breath and sank back into the bench of seats. Marco perched over him and kissed him, giving his cock a few slow pulls with his hand.

“Jean, if there is something you don’t want to do, tell me,” Marco said. “If you want to stop, tell me, ok? I want to know what you like and what you don’t like.”

Jean sighed. For a moment Marco lay on top of him, nuzzling his ear. “No, everything you’re doing feels good, I don’t want you to stop,” Jean said. “It’s just...me. If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”

Marco kissed Jean’s neck again. He drew back and slipped one arm underneath Jean’s lower back; with the other hand he teased Jean’s opening with the pad of his thumb. He licked Jean, giving him one long stroke from his perineum, up his balls, to the end of his shaft. It made Jean shudder. Marco swirled his tongue around Jean’s tip, then took him into his mouth again. 

Jean felt his tip reach the back of Marco’s throat and winced. He didn’t care how many guys Marco had done this to before if he got to benefit from the practice now. Just being on the list was an honor. 

“Oh my god,” Jean moaned. “That feels so good.” His eyes rolled back in his head and his back arched off the seats without him being fully aware of it. Marco pressed the flat part of his knuckles against Jean’s perineum and held more pressure there while he licked and sucked Jean. Marco wasn’t in a hurry, but Jean knew he wasn’t going to last long... 

So this was what it was like to be devoured. Jean was completely overwhelmed; Marco was sensory overload. He’d never in his life felt this combination of ecstasy and stress. Jean’s hips started to jerk involuntarily. Marco knew what that meant. He grabbed Jean tighter and sucked him harder, just enough to bring him over the edge. 

Jean felt the tension build in the base of his spine, then gasped as it escaped from his body like an electric charge. For a moment he just breathed heavily, feeling a tingling sensation brushing along his skin, every nerve more sensitive than before. Marco had swiped a stack of napkins off the counter at the cafe, and spat into one. He leaned over Jean again, and lay his head on Jean’s chest, his arms around Jean’s torso. They were an awkward tangle of legs trying to fit across the seats, but neither of them cared. 

Marco was heavy, but his weight felt so good, like a massage for Jean's eternally nervous body. For a minute, all Jean could do was breathe and let his hands drift down Marco’s warm back. 

Marco sat up slowly and reached for Jean to sit up with him. He guided Jean’s legs around his waist and pulled him closer for a kiss. Jean found the faintly salty, slightly bitter taste of it strange at first. He was still trying to process just how excited Marco had been to go down on him. Touching someone the way he touched Marco already felt so different than what he was used to. Jean wished he could occupy his own body the way Marco did his, with a warm, shining confidence. How long would that take?

Jean didn’t know what to say, how to tell Marco how good everything felt without sounding pitiful. Kissing him would have to suffice. He held the back of Marco’s neck and felt the gold chain, he laughed without meaning to.

“What is it?” Marco asked.

“Just hope Saint Sebastian enjoyed that,” Jean said. He liked how Marco looked without his shirt, but still wearing his jewelry. “Guess he got a piece, too.”

Marco let out a deep, hearty laugh and squeezed Jean tighter. “Well, you know, it is about time he answered me.”

Jean wondered if Marco was serious. He hadn’t prayed in years, but he sensed that maybe, on that night, some deity was cheering for him. He kissed the pit of Marco’s neck and unfastened Marco’s belt. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he whispered.

Marco laughed again. “I think whatever you do will still feel good,” he said. 

“I learn fast,” Jean said. He pulled himself off of Marco to let him take off his jeans. Marco was wearing lime green underwear, and it made Jean smile. “You’re a lot more colorful than I am,” he said. Then he marveled at Marco’s erection for a moment. Getting it into his mouth was going to be a challenge, much less elsewhere. Jean took a deep breath.

“Are you all right?” Marco asked.

“I always get excited when I meet a new opponent,” Jean said. His devilish smile was back.

“You are so funny, Jean,” Marco said.

Jean shook his head. “It’s going to take you a lot longer to convince me of that one.” He noticed the neatly trimmed hair on Marco’s crotch. “Well damn. You trimmed up, and I’m just a jungle down there.”

“It’s not a problem. I have to do this, otherwise it is like fucking steel wool,” Marco said with a shrug.

That was an awfully specific phrase, Jean thought; he wondered if it was something Armin told him on tour. Jean realized he was now in a secret club with Armin, the only two guys at Northpoint who had seen Marco’s dick. So far. 

Marco sat back against the window, leaning into the fuzzy black lining of his coat. Jean sank down onto his forearms, his head in Marco’s lap. Maybe if he could think of more jokes, it would take his mind off of how nervous he was. “I’m sorry,” Jean said, gripping the base of Marco’s cock. “It’s just that...the curiosity has been killing me,” he licked Marco’s shaft, and Marco inhaled sharply (a good sign), “and I really had to find out for myself,” he spit onto Marco’s tip and licked it back up, “whether or not you had freckles down here, too.”

Marco laughed, but it was shallow and tight this time, his body tensing and relaxing in reaction to Jean's tongue and hands. “Ah...yeah...there are a few of them,” he said. He tilted his head back, pressing it against the window. He rested one hand on the center of Jean’s back, and the other he wound playfully through Jean’s hair. “Ah, that feels good,” Marco whispered. “Actually, ah...the more wet it is...the better…”

 _Now that, I can do._ Jean would conjure up as much spit as it took. He was aching to do for Marco what Marco had just done for him. Marco was struggling with words, his body was writhing a little bit; it flooded Jean with relief to feel just how sensitive Marco was to everything he was doing. Jean was searching his memory, through all the times he’d gotten himself off with just his hands, the videos he’d watched. But the most helpful thing was just feeling and listening to Marco. 

They were well-matched in terms of size, but Marco’s cock was a little wider and rounder toward the tip. Jean’s jaw was already starting to burn, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by gagging. He got into a rhythm, pulling the bottom half up with his hand, squeezing and releasing it, sucking and spitting on the top half. _One day, I’ll be able to take you all the way, and one day, you’ll win at pool,_ Jean thought. But from the happy moans coming from Marco, what Jean was doing was working, and Jean was willing to treat it like a hockey match: ignore whatever discomfort he felt until he won. He gripped Marco’s waist with his free hand. 

Jean was still trying to figure out how to draw harder without scratching Marco with his teeth, but he loved the feeling of Marco’s body turning to putty in his hands, then going rigid again. Marco gripped Jean’s hair a little harder, then his hand went weak. Jean was starting to feel like he had super powers. He was making a mess, saliva dripping everywhere, but Marco’s heavy breathing and low groans were egging him on. 

“Ah...I’m getting close,” Marco said. Jean felt the hard arch in Marco’s back; Marco gripped the back of Jean’s neck and pressed down on Jean’s back as he came, pushing his cock deeper into Jean’s mouth. Jean held his breath, trying to hold the bitter glob in his mouth and not spit it everywhere. His neck took the force of Marco’s thrusting hips. 

Jean felt Marco’s body go limp, his breathing dry, shallow, and fast. Jean hunted around for a napkin to spit into. For a moment, he just gazed at Marco as another car drove past, illuminating his body. His eyes were shut, and the look on his face was something in between rapture and pain. There was something sweet and almost pitiful about it that seized Jean’s heart. Marco’s eyelids fluttered open and his smile came back.

Jean moved Marco’s legs across his lap and sat with his feet on the floor; he turned and wrapped his arms around Marco’s torso and lay his head on Marco’s chest. The backseat of the car was cramped and strange, but it also felt perfect. The soft lining of Marco’s heavy coat enveloped them, and Jean felt the faint layer of perspiration on Marco’s skin. 

Marco kissed the top of Jean’s head and played with the long pieces of his hair; he seemed to love doing that, and Jean found it relaxing, he loved the sensation of Marco’s fingers on his scalp. 

“I was right again,” Marco said. 

“Mm...what do you mean?” Jean wasn’t completely comfortable, but holding onto Marco felt too good for him to care.

“That felt so good,” Marco sighed. 

Jean tilted his face up to kiss him. Marco’s kiss was slow and sloppy this time, like he was still regaining control of his body. 

Jean heard his phone ring. The first few chords of his favorite Pyronica song pierced their cozy little bubble.

Marco laughed. “This is ‘Antigone’s Cave?’”

“Yeah,” Jean groaned and peeled himself away. He found his phone in his jeans pocket on the floor. “Shit, it’s my mom.” He let it ring. “It’s getting late, if I don’t head back soon she’s gonna bite my head off.”

Marco sat next to him and rested his chin on Jean’s shoulder. “Ok,” he said. He kissed Jean’s cheek. “So I guess we will find some other time for round two?”

“Yeah,” Jean sighed. 

Marco took his face in his hands and kissed him again. “I want to do this again soon,” he said. 

“Me too,” Jean said. 

Marco pushed Jean back onto the seats and lay on top of him, kissing him hard while Jean’s phone rang again, ignored on the floor. 

❄

Hannah had already gone home and Stepan was back when Jean walked in with Marco to claim his backpack. 

Marco gave Jean one more kiss goodnight on the front steps; he felt like his body was glowing. He watched Jean get back into his car and tried not to laugh when he saw Jean roll the windows down; whether it was to dispel the fog or air out the car, he wasn’t sure. Poor Jean, so cold in that jacket. He looked so hot in it, like he walked out of a magazine spread, but it did so little for the bite of the Chicago wind. 

Marco retreated to his room and lay on his yoga mat on the floor. He stretched his arms out and let his hips fall to one side, then the other, wringing out his spine. He worked through his sequence of stretches in a happy daze, still feeling the blissful, fuzzy aftereffects of his orgasm. He was way too happy not to tell someone, this couldn’t wait.

He reached for his phone and texted Armin.   
**_Guess what!  
_ ** **_I invited Jean for a coffee_ ** **_  
_** **_It was THE BEST!!_ **

**_—I'm happy for you_ **, Armin typed. Marco remembered that Armin was supposed to have dinner with Eren’s family that night. 

**_Yes it was great_ ** , Marco wrote.  
 **_We hooked up in his car ;) ;)  
_ ** **_They don't call him a horse for nothing!! :D :D :D_ **

**_—Marco, don't tell me these things_ **, Armin said. He didn’t seem especially happy, Marco thought. 

**_But you are the only person I can tell them to :(((_ ** Marco said.

 **_—Really?  
_ ** **_There's no one in Italy you can text about this?  
_ ** **_Or China?_ **

Marco didn’t understand why Armin seemed annoyed.  
 **_Yes ;)_ ** he typed.  
 **_But they are all asleep!! :(  
_ ** **_And they don’t get it. :(  
_ ** **_And I wanted to tell you first!!_ **

**_—I'm honored_ ** , Armin wrote.   
**_Congratulations on bagging your first trophy on US soil_ **

Marco sighed. It wasn’t always possible for him to tell just through text messages, but Armin seemed to be in one of his cynical moods again. Sure, Marco was immensely proud of himself for getting one of the hot hockey players to hook up with him. But he was starting to like Jean more and more as time went on. It was like discovering a new favorite band; getting hooked on one single, and then digging through their back catalog, discovering all the gems and early experiments, and then wishing desperately for the next release to come out as soon as possible. Meeting Jean was like discovering Paradis all over again. 

Marco wondered if something had happened to Armin to turn his mood sour. **_How was Eren's??!!_ **

**_—We watched Planet Earth and made out in his basement,_ ** Armin wrote.

 ** _That's all?_** Marco asked.

 **_—??  
_ ** **_Mikasa, Annie, and Eren's parents were all there! upstairs  
_ ** **_Besides  
_ ** **_I'm trying to get invited back  
_ ** **_Not to mention I only met him a week ago!  
_ **Armin seemed flustered with his rapid fire texts.

 **_Aw  
_ ** **_You are such a good boy_ **, Marco wrote.

— **_Believe me, if I ever get to bang him, you'll be the first to know_ **, Armin said. 

**_I do not know how you could resist :)))))  
_ ** **_Hahaha if I were there I would be all over him!!_ **

**_— :0  
_ ** **_Too bad,_ ** Armin said.  
 **_I'm not sharing._ **

**_What happened to my nice friend?? ;)_ **

**_—Go ride your horse,_ ** Armin typed.

 **_Hahahahaha  
_ ** **_It’s so cute how much you like Eren,_ ** Marco said. He really did want to see Armin happy, especially after everything they’d been through together.

 **_—Yeah, you know, I'm trying really hard not to mess this one up_ **, Armin said.

 **_You are doing that thing again!!_ **Marco wrote.

**_—What thing?_ **

**_Where you think you are doing everything wrong but nothing is wrong,_ ** Marco wrote. Eren looked so smitten around Armin, Marco could practically smell the longing. What could Armin possibly do wrong? But then, Marco supposed Armin had gotten picked on mercilessly as a kid too, only it had taken his habits of mind in a much darker and less trusting direction in life.   
**_I do not understand you Armin!!  
_ ** **_You are so smart about everything else_ **

**_—Thanks?_ **

**_don't worry_ ** **_  
_** **_It's adorable,_ ** Marco said.

**_—Ok, I'll take your word for it._ **

**_You are like a bunny,_ ** Marco said.   
**_Shy and cute. Everyone likes bunnys._ **   
**_It is true and you know it!!_ ** Armin liked having his hair played with as much as Jean did, but he would never ask for it or admit it. 

**_—Then you must be a dog_ ** **_  
_** **_because you like everyone_ ** **_  
_** **_and you lick whoever will let you_ **, Armin typed.

Marco laughed out loud. He loved dogs.  
 **_You are not wrong!! :D  
_ ** He grabbed an image off of Google and texted it to Armin: a puppy and a rabbit in a basket.   
**_Look it’s us!!_ ** **_  
_** **_No one can say no to us :0  
_ ** **_We are too cute :))))_ **

**_—I rest my case_ ** , Armin said.  
 ****_All right  
_ **_I'm going to bed  
_ ** ******_I'll talk to you tomorrow!_**

Marco set his phone down and lay stretched out on his mat. He was the best possible kind of tired, from both skating and sex, a feeling he relished. He heard the door creak open and the cat walk in. Rishi climbed onto his chest and started purring. 

“I don’t know what you are so happy about, Rishi,” Marco said, running his hand over the cat’s fur. “But I will tell you why I am happy.” The cat squinted his eyes in delight. “I have met this very beautiful guy, you know, he has yellow eyes just like you. And very soft hair, like you.” Marco yawned, and the cat yawned, too. Marco squished the cat’s face with his thumbs. “And I cannot wait to see him again.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean has an anxiety attack, Marco is worried, and the coaches bicker on, like they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as crazy about this chapter as some of the others. I was hoping to write a lot more and a lot sooner, but this past week just did not go as I planned. Better luck this coming week, I hope!

Jean drove home with the windows down until it became so cold he couldn't stand it, supposedly to air out the car. He wasn’t yet aware of the tendency he had to punish himself. He'd be the last to use the car that night and the first to use it the next morning, he should be safe from suspicion, he decided. Luckily he didn't live far from Franz. Jean put on a few songs that made him think of Marco and looked forward to the hot shower waiting for him, where he could replay it all and fantasize about everything he wanted to do next. 

Jean realized that day might have been the happiest he'd ever been. More so than any Christmas or birthday, or any tournament win. He felt something clutching in his heart, like trying to keep a candle flame from going out. Sure, it hadn't been perfect, freezing in the car at first and trying to fit on the seats. But he felt that for a few hours at least, he had been perfect to someone. 

At a stoplight, he pulled down the mirror on the back of the sun shade in front of him. He really did like his eyes. And his hair. That long, pointed face that was so awkward when he was younger suited him better the older he got, he felt certain of it now. 

As he drove closer to his neighborhood, he felt a sinking feeling, one he’d felt hundreds of times before, but this was the most clearly he'd ever sensed it. Most of the things that made him truly happy, he kept a secret from his family. Hockey was no secret, of course. Little things, like good food or good weather, sure, nothing to hide there. But even with those, he always tempered his reaction to match whatever mood predominated in the house. He was always treading carefully without fully realizing it. He was a mirror. 

It was too soon to say anything about Marco. Marco was still so wildly, mysteriously new. And Jean wouldn't show them any of the drawings where he felt like he'd truly captured what he wanted, the ones he kept in easy reach to look back at on the days on when he got frustrated and needed the reminder to keep at it. They didn't need to know about that obsession in particular.

He looked at the houses on his street and sighed. He had no reason to be upset, he thought. His parents were still together and gave him everything he needed; no one fought; he had friends; he had hockey and art in his life, two real passions. But his moments of happiness still felt like faint flickers against an endless field of gray. Confusion, waiting, nothingness. He felt guilty for not being happier. 

Marco was not gray. Marco was full-on, blinding sunshine, and Jean wanted more time in it, even if it burned him. Maybe it would even be ok if it burned him. At least then, he would be feeling something new. 

He pulled into the garage, put the windows back down, swung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked into the kitchen. His mom was wearing her fluffy purple bathrobe and cockatoo slippers. She gave him a hug. She came up to his shoulder. 

« Jean, petit chou, where were you? And why are you so cold? »

« I'm fine, I was just at Franz's with Hannah and Marco. »  _ I have friends, I swear. Shouldn't you be happy for me?  _

« All right, but if you're going to be home late, I want you to tell me, ok? I tried calling you. »

« Yeah, sorry, I had my phone on silent from class, » Jean said. It was all technically true. 

« Late night, huh, Jean? » Marc called to him as he walked past the living room.

« Yeah, I got recruited by the mafia, » Jean said, his voice completely deadpan. 

_ Well that’s awkward. Marc and Marco. Great. _ But then, Jean realized, if that was the most awkward thing between Marco and his brothers, he would be exceptionally lucky. Sunday dinner and the Christmas market hung over Jean’s head like an axe. He wasn’t sure which would be worse: telling his family he was interested in Marco as more than a friend, or spending that evening with all of them together on his best Sunday School behavior, straight-laced and tight-lipped. 

He was so tired of shutting down. 

Jean walked past the cluster of picture frames that he always ignored and noticed the way his neck stiffened to keep his eyes off of them. He felt a flicker of dread. If things were gray, at least they were safe. Grayness was pervasive, atmospheric, a given. Not something that could randomly be taken away from you, or that could disappear. 

Jean’s sweatshirt still smelled like Marco, and it felt like a prize. He left it on his bed instead of putting it in the laundry. Usually smells brought back memories for Jean, but tonight was the other way around for him; the vague, dark clouds of memories that crept in as he drove home and walked through the house were reminding him of smells he hated. The corridors and waiting rooms from the children’s hospital. The noxious pot pourri from the funeral home. Even the scads of flowers that filled their old house after Marie passed were cloying and oppressive. Jean took the two glass bottles out of his gym bag and shook a few drops from each of them onto the floor of the shower so they would diffuse. He wanted to anchor himself into something new, less like trying to be constantly high and more like an endorphin rush after a workout, something to carry him over into the next day after the intensity of Marco. 

Jean took a deep breath and let the hot water spill over him. As he warmed up, he realized that in spite of the dread he felt, he wasn’t as tense or worn out as usual, like something heavy had been lifted off of him. 

_ Fucking finally _ , he thought. 

Marco wasn’t kidding about the bruises, though, he thought as he rinsed off. In bright enough light, Jean was like an opal, tinted with blue, green, purple, and yellow as the splotches healed. But Jean found it cute that Marco seemed so worried. Jean barely noticed them anymore, it was just part of life. 

He decided to get back at Marco for the locker room photo that had nearly given him a heart attack. He’d never be quite so stunning, but he'd still give it his best shot. He took his phone from the counter and sat down against the faux-marble tile, he raked his fingers through his wet hair to get the little spikes to fall into place. He leaned one arm back, his palm behind his head, and held his phone out in front of him, letting his body take up most of the frame. He let his raised knee just cover up his crotch… 

_ Ugh, no, that's not it. Too much armpit. _

He pressed his fingertips to his hairline and moved the wet strands of his hair around a little. 

_ And now I look like I'm in pain… _

He tried more of a smirk, less of a neutral expression. 

_ Yeah, that's it. Better angle on my arm. Just enough face. Got that ab shadow going. Good. No dick, but cutting it close…  _

He got out and grabbed a towel, then sent the photo to Marco.  **_Wish you were here_ ** , he wrote. 

Jean leaned against the counter, sinking his weight into his hands, along the edge. He was never going to be rugged, beefy Claude. He was never going to be metro man-candy Marco. Or G.I. Joe Reiner. Or elf twink Eren…

He'd have to find his own thing. He could be an owl-eyed demon horse in a leather jacket. That could work. 

He wondered if any of his straight guy friends ever felt like this, not necessarily wanting to be beautiful, but wanting to be seen and admired. It wasn't like they didn't all spend hours in the gym. 

Jean's phone buzzed. His heart leapt. 

**_!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Jean you know it's really good that we have so much coffee here XD_ ** , Marco wrote.   
**_Because you really don't want me to sleep!! ;) ;) ;)_ **

Jean's face split into a huge smile.  **_What? No, I do want you to sleep_ ** , he wrote.   
**_Just somewhere I am._ ** He prayed it wasn't too cheesy. 

**_I would love this so much!! :D :D :D_ ** Marco said.   
**_I wish I was there :(_ **

Jean walked back to his room, grinning at his phone, unsure of what to say.

Marco sent him a photo back. He wore a fuzzy fleece of some kind, unzipped and open, showing his chest, and he had a resigned, wistful expression on his face. The cat was climbing on him, his front paws on his shoulder, looking back at the camera. 

**_I have only Rishi for company. : <  
_ ** **_I tried to explain to him, that it’s not the same.  
_ ** **_He doesn’t understand._ **

**_God damn it, Rishi, you manwhore_ ** , Jean typed.

**_It’s ok_ ** , Marco said.  
**_I am patient. ;)_ **

Except he really wasn’t, Jean thought. He’d wasted no time getting into Jean’s pants. Jean didn’t have a problem with it, not by a long shot; in fact he was hoping to keep up the pace. But ‘patient’ was not a word he’d use to describe Marco. 

Unless all this was something he’d been waiting for over a long period of time beforehand… 

No, Jean decided that was too much wishful thinking, even for him. 

But then, Armin had said Marco was obsessed with getting a boyfriend…

_ Jesus, I need to go to bed,  _ Jean thought.

**_I will see you tomorrow!! :D_ ** Marco typed. 

**_Can’t wait_ ** , Jean said.  **_Sleep well!_ **

**_:D :D :D_ **

Jean decided to sleep in his sweatshirt. He breathed in the last faint vapors of Marco’s cologne as he drifted off. 

❄

Jean was out the door on the way to conditioning before anyone else was up. He snagged a box of granola bars from the pantry; not ideal, but it was fuel. Only a tiny trace of Marco’s scent remained in the car. Jean took out a new cartridge for the air freshener clip.

« Oh my god, » he said out loud to himself. « Why am I like this? » He turned up his music. « They’re not going to find out. And even if they do find out, what are they going to do? Fucking stone me to death? I swear to god... »

But no logic, no reason made the icy hand grip him any less tightly. Jean felt his breath shorten, a tingling in his hands and face again. Something old, something primal and traumatic, buried in his nerves, made him feel like he was swimming in cold water, slowing him down, locking him up. 

He hadn’t snapped out of it when he met up with Bert and Reiner by the weight racks. Reiner was finishing up a set of squats. 

“Jean?” Bert squinted. “Are you all right?” 

“What do you mean?” Jean asked. But he could feel the lie curdling in his mouth. His perception felt hazy and his throat was dry.

“Well...you haven’t even gotten started and you’re already out of breath,” Bert said, in his gentle, Mr. Rogers way.

Jean laughed a little but it made no sound. Reiner sank the bar back into the rack and looked at him.

“Yeah, you’re looking a little pale there,” Reiner said, his breath heavy, cheeks flushed. 

Jean started to talk, but the words didn’t come out.  _ Is it that obvious? _

“Why don’t you go talk to Nanaba?” Bert asked, picking up his metal water bottle. Jean was just about to chide him for not seeing her himself when he noticed a bright blue brace on Bert’s knee, just visible from under the hem of his shorts. Bert studied Jean again. “You seem really out of it,” he said. 

Jean shrugged. “Yeah...all right,” his voice sounded thinner than he expected it to. “If you say so.”

“Do you want us to go with you?” Bert asked.

“What?” Now Jean was more worried than before. “No, it’s fine...I’ll...catch up with you guys.”

Jean made his way over to the offices at the other side of the gym. He felt a tightness in his chest and more of the strange tingling all over his body. Nanaba saw him approaching.

« Jean? Is everything ok? » She wore the same concerned look as Bert. 

Jean stepped inside the door and felt like he’d been outside running. His face was numb. « I...actually don’t know, » he said, as confused as he was embarrassed.

« Hey, have a seat, » she nodded toward the old leather couch across from the trainers’ desks. « Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on? »

He tried to describe it, but the words were slow to come, and he found it hard to think clearly. « Sorry, I don’t even know if that makes any sense... »

Nanaba held out her hand. « This is going to sound a little strange, but try something for me. I want you to grip my hand as hard as you can. »

« Are you sure? » Jean was no titan, but he didn’t want to injure Nanaba’s hand.

« It’ll be fine, » she said, smiling softly. 

Jean tried it. He found his grip was unusually weak. He laughed nervously, looking around. « What the hell? » he muttered to himself.

« It looks like you’re having an anxiety attack, » Nanaba said. Her voice had a touch of gravity, but no alarm. Jean found that reassuring at least. « Have you had these before, Jean? » she asked, sitting down across from him in her swivel chair. « It’s not quite as extreme as a full-on panic attack, but it’s in the same family.»

« No, I don’t think it’s happened before, » he said. The inside of his chest felt heavy, but his limbs felt light and hollow. « I mean, I’ve had my hands go numb before. And my face, but like...years ago... »

Nanaba put her blue light glasses back on. She wore a North Face fleece in Trost’s forest green. « Jean, did something happen recently? Anything that would have made you more stressed than usual? You don’t have to tell me what it is, but did something unusual come up? »

He could think of a few things. But as for what to tell her… « Yeah. Just...family stuff, I guess. » He shrugged. He could have smacked himself for saying something so vague and unhelpful, but she just nodded. 

« Sometimes the worst kind of stuff, » she said, her voice light. « Though it doesn’t always look that way on the surface. » The look on her face was subtle, but knowing. Jean melted with relief at not having to explain. « Do you want some water? » she asked him. « That might help. »

Jean took a paper cone from the dispenser in the corner. The blue plastic cistern made a loud glug as he filled it up. He noticed the surface of the water rippling slightly, even though he tried to hold the little cone still. He glanced out the open door, at the weight racks. 

« Jean. Don’t do the conditioning this morning, » Nanaba said. « You’re more likely to make a mistake and get injured. And if you’re having symptoms like this, as strongly as this, then you need to take a break. I’ll tell Mike you weren’t well, you don’t have to say anything to him. »

But Jean didn’t want to take a break. He wanted to get his squat to 400 pounds by the end of December, to catch up to Bert and Marlowe and have one more thing to lord over Eren. He started to feel more panicked. « Well...what about tonight? » he asked.

« You should see how you feel, » she said. « Most likely you should be back to normal within an hour or so, but if not, you should go talk to the nurse, all right? » She smiled faintly. « Jean, » he knew she could sense how distraught he was, « This kind of thing happens every so often, but sometimes it’s much later than the event that set it off. It’s just...in the nervous system. You can’t always predict when it’s going to happen. Something is wrong, but it doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong with _ you. _ Do you understand what I mean? »

He nodded, although he wasn’t convinced. He still felt pins and needles across his face and chest, worse than he’d ever had them. He looked at the floor, feeling betrayed by his body, like he had a time bomb hidden inside him, and he couldn’t pick out the precise moment that detonated it. At least it was happening before conditioning and not before a game. 

« You can stay here until class starts if you need to, » Nanaba said. 

Jean took her up on the offer, not wanting to go face his teammates. He lay down on the couch and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, covering his eyes. It was warm in the office, and quiet except for the clack of Nanaba’s fast typing and the hum of the heat through the vents above him. He wished he could sleep, but more than that, he wished he could disappear. 

_ It’s not his fault _ , Jean thought. He pictured Marco with his halogen smile. 

_ Fuck. _

_ I have to tell them.  _ He pictured Marc and Claude on the couch with their Xbox controllers; his mom with Marco and Mina at the rink…

_ God.  _ He remembered Marco lying on top of him, kissing him.  _ I want him so bad. _

_ I’m going to have to tell them.  _

_ How hard does it have to be? _

The strange symptoms still coursed through Jean’s body, and he looked up at the ceiling, feeling like a giant squid stranded on the shore. He wished he’d had his headphones, but he didn’t feel like going to get them from his locker and walking past everyone. He did a search on his phone for ‘anxiety attacks.’ According to the internet, he wasn’t, well,  _ crazy _ , he supposed, or alone. But it still wasn’t good. His body still hurt. And he found it tedious to concentrate. He flicked through his social media apps; pictures were easier than words.   


Marco’s selfie from that morning was of him and the cat again, both of their faces close to the screen, making similar expressions. Marco smiled a little higher on one side, showing his snaggletooth; one of the cat’s bright white fangs was poking out of his mouth. There was no caption, just a tooth emoji. Jean tried not to make any sound that Nanaba would notice; he just sighed. It was stupid how cute it was, he thought. Then he noticed a comment.

Lisa Shin  
**_Eh, I don’t know Marco....I liked that other guy from your last photo better. ;)_ **

Jean had completely forgotten about the photo they’d taken together. He scrolled down to it on Marco’s page. It was one of the most-liked things Marco had posted. Jean blinked a few times, shocked. He looked at the comments. Most were in Italian, a few in English saying how cute and handsome they looked.  _ Well damn. I’m going to print this out and frame it on the wall _ , Jean thought. Then he saw this:

Annie Leonhardt  
**_Wow, Jean. You give hope to ugly ducklings everywhere._ **

_ Oh, fuck you, Annie, _ Jean thought. He wanted to type a response, “Yeah I bet you would know,” followed by a bunch of nose emoji, but as he reached up to type, he felt drained, pinned down by gravity. He didn’t want a comment with the current timestamp, either. He was supposed to be in the weight room, not lying like a salted slug on the trainers’ couch. 

Nanaba stepped out to help one of the gymnasts with a sprained wrist. Jean was about to put his phone back in his pocket when it vibrated in his hand.

**_Hey!! How are you doing?? :D_ **

Jean let out a heavy sigh.  _ Oh god. What the fuck do I tell him?  _ He felt like a monkey had plopped down in the center of his chest, wanting to play.  _ Shit. All right, Saint Sebastian, what the hell do I do? _ he thought, half jokingly. He looked to the ceiling tiles for inspiration.  _ God, it’s like I’m allergic to happiness. _ He still wanted Marco to like him, and not think he was some kind of hypochondriac wallflower. 

Jean shut his eyes for a minute. Something barely perceptible entered his awareness. A little jolt. Not a voice, just an impulse: do the thing you never do.

He rubbed his still-numb face.  _ Now?  _

But then, nerves burning, he wondered if anything in that moment could possibly make him feel worse. Another painful wave of realization came over him. Jean didn’t want to tell Marco about just this. 

He wanted to tell Marco  _ everything _ . 

Jean thought of the sketchbook held shut with rubber bands and metal clips in his backpack. How hard would it be, to just take off one clip?

He squinted at the screen and typed in quick, shaky pecks.    
**_Not great today_ ** , he wrote.    
**_I got pretty sick this morning._ ** **_  
_ ** **_Had to miss conditioning._ **   
  


**_Oh no are you ok?? :((((((_ ** Marco typed back.  
**_What happened??_ **

For a minute, Jean just breathed, thinking of what to say. He could have retched from the irony. The person he wanted to impress the most was also the person he wanted to use as a secret confessional.   
**_It’s been weird I’m not really sure how to describe it._ ** He gave just a few details.   
**_Never knew you could get physically sick from anxiety  
_ ** **_Not gonna lie I hate it and I want it to go away ASAP_ **

**_That sounds so bad. :(((((_ ** Marco said. **_  
I'm sorry _ **

Jean was torn as to just how worried he wanted Marco to be about him. Marco thinking about him was great. He was touched that Marco seemed worried. But he didn’t want it to actually ruin his day. Armin’s giant puppy comparison was still holding true. 

**_It could be worse,_ ** Jean wrote.   
**_It just sucks for the time being._ **

**_Well, that is good I guess??  
_ ** **_But still I do not want you to be sick!! :((((  
_ ** **_Do you want to talk about it?_ **

Jean took a deep breath. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that his parents cared about him. But he couldn’t totally explain why it was that it felt so different when Marco did. Or even Nanaba, or Bert. Maybe because it was optional, not a given? They had to go out of their way to care? Jean wasn’t one to fake things for attention. At home he usually maneuvered in such a way as to take the attention off of himself. But when the attention was there anyway…

He remembered the day he got the slash across his hip from a teammate’s skate blade, during a summer hockey camp in junior high. He was still pushing himself up off the ice when Bert darted over to give him a hand, the first to see Jean bleeding through his jersey. Jean thought of the way Bert looked at him then, and the way he had that morning, big eyes shining with sincere concern. It hadn’t hurt that Bert was one of the first guys Jean ever knew for sure he wanted to fuck. 

He lay his phone against his chest. HIs parents had worried enough for multiple lifetimes, he thought. But his friends...ok,  _ that _ he could feel a little less guilty about. If  _ they _ worried about him...

**_I do, just not right now_ ** , Jean said.  **_If that makes sense._ **

**_Yeah of course!!  
_ ** **_I understand,_ ** Marco said.   
**_Will you be at the rink today??_ **

There it was again, that tendril of guilt that always managed to wrap itself around Jean’s throat.  _ Fuck. I just want him to want me, I don’t want him to actually feel bad…  _ Jean noticed the pain in his body again.   
**_Yeah, I should be_ ** , Jean said.  
**_I’m going to try to be  
_ ** **_I’ll be there unless I’m basically vomiting lol_ **

**_Ok well I really hope you will feel better soon!!_ ** Marco said.  
**_Do you like animal videos?? :D_ **

Jean was curious.  **_Yes? Usually?_ **

**_Do you like owls?? :D_ **

Jean ran his hand through his hair.  **_Yeah owls are cool_ ** , he wrote.  _ Owls? _

Marco sent him a YouTube link. Jean turned off the sound on his phone, he looked up and saw that Nanaba was still out on the gym floor. He clicked on the video. It was in Italian and it showed a man with full-sleeve tattoos on his arms holding up a giant eagle owl on a falconer’s glove. The huge bird looked intensely pissed until the man started petting the bird’s head with his other heavily-gloved hand. The bird’s eyes narrowed into little crescent moons and its ear tufts flattened out, its body fluffed up to twice its size and the bird sank down onto the man’s arm with a wiggling motion. Jean tried to laugh, but it came out as a pitiful, quiet wheeze. He turned up the volume just slightly.  _ Wow. Italian bird rescue ASMR. Just the thing I never knew I needed. _

He had no hope of understanding what the man was saying, but he had a pleasant, soothing voice.  
**_That’s pretty great_ ** , he texted Marco.

**_It is me making you feel better!!_ ** Marco wrote.

Jean tried not to smile too wide, visible through the open door to the office. He was still sick, he couldn’t look too happy.   
**_All right, let’s try this_ ** , he typed.  
**_When I see you later I’ll sit on your arm and you can pet my head.  
_ ** **_Guaranteed to work._ **

**_:)))))))))))))_ **

Jean would never tell Marco that his style of texting in English reminded him of those “Texts from the Dog” pages on meme websites.   
**_Yeah 9 days out of 10 I’m a sad owl that needs head pats_ ** , Jean wrote. 

**_That is ok :)  
_ ** **_This is when you are not a horse I want to ride?? ;)_ ** Marco said.

_ Ohhhhkay. Straight face, deep breaths.  _ **  
** **_Well, you know_ ** , Jean searched for words.   
**_I’m a multi-faceted guy  
_ ** **_What can I say?_ **

**_:D  
I really hope you are going to feel better soon_ ** , Marco said.  
**_Because I really want to see you tonight :))))_ **

**_I’m trying_ ** , Jean wrote.    
**_I swear._ **

**_Will you tell me what you have been worried about?_ **

Jean looked at the screen, his chest still felt like it was caving in. There was no point in lying to him, but it was still hard. Those clips felt rusted shut.  
**_I want to, but  
_ ** **_It might take me a couple of tries._ ** He felt pitiful, and yet at the same time, strangely free.   
**_So just bear with me ok?_ **

**_Of course I am just trying to get to know you better :)))))_ ** Marco said. 

Jean closed his eyes and sank into the couch. His typical racing thoughts had taken up residence in his nerves, and he lay breathing through the tingling pain, quiet until he had to force himself to get up to go to class. 

He tried to slip in and out of the locker room as discreetly as possible, but he still heard a voice behind him.

“Hey! Where were you?” Eren screeched. But Jean didn’t even turn around, he kept walking as if he hadn’t heard it. Eren was the last person Jean wanted to deal with in that moment. 

Bert caught Eren’s shoulder and held him back. “Eren, leave him alone. He’s sick, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Jean silently thanked God for Bert as he made his way out into the hall, feeling a little lighter, a tiny bit less clamped down. 

❄

Marco put his phone back down on the bench next to his water bottle, worried about Jean. He stretched his neck and shoulders, looking out over the west rink from the upstairs studio. Armin was jumping rope in the corner, his hair flying all over the place, and Mina, Mikasa, and a few other skaters did Pilates on their long mats behind them. They were reaching the end of their off-ice training block. 

“It is a very underrated sport, ice dancing,” Levi said. He’d shed his heavy parka and his shirt revealed how hard and lean he’d kept his body. Marco was silently impressed. “Typically, when I am watching singles skating, I feel...well it is rage, mostly.” He took a sip from his thermos. “But then, when I watch ice dancing, you know, I can relax. It is how it moves, how it is so fluid.” 

Marco grinned. “Ah, yes, this is something I have always liked about it, too.” He hadn’t expected Levi to even introduce himself, much less talk to him as much as he was. It hadn’t gotten any less intimidating.

“Yes, I am watching this, and then I think, now I can finally enjoy some fucking skating,” Levi said. The smell of jasmine and green tea permeated the room. Marco laughed, a little uneasily.

“Levi, can’t you watch your language?” Petra asked, helping a skater with a partner stretch. 

“We are all adults here,” Levi said. He screwed the cap back on his thermos, and Marco realized it was not solid black, but actually a penguin. Marco bit his lip so as not to laugh. 

“So you are a pretty strong guy, right?” Levi asked.

Even for Marco, it was a little forward. He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, yes? I suppose?”  _ But compared to what? _ Marco wondered. A measure of the strength training he did wasn’t for ice dancing at all, just for his own satisfaction.

“You need to take advantage of this in your choreography,” Levi said.

Oulo groaned. “Levi, this isn’t pairs, he’s not throwing Mina into the air.” This time it was Mina’s turn to laugh uneasily.

Levi shook his head. “I am just saying, you have an opportunity here, and you should take it. You can do these more difficult lifts, am I wrong?”

Marco and Mina had gone over several that they knew that morning already. Gravity and momentum did a lot to help Marco lift, swing, and twirl her around him, but the repetition made it hard. And there were segments where they had to balance against each other, all of her weight against his thigh, hip, or shoulder. Still, Marco was proud of what they were already able to do. Far more lifts were legal for them now at the senior level, and Marco had made Armin work out with him every day on tour. Armin trained jumps, ironing out his weak spots, and Marco worked on his upper body to balance himself out, determined to hit the ground running with his next partner. 

“For heavens’ sake, Levi, let them get their feet underneath them before you go and scramble everything up again,” Oulo heaved. The British tint to his accent made him seem fustier, angrier than he really was.

“They have already got their feet, I think you are not challenging them enough,” Levi said.

Oulo massaged his temples. “Levi, do you even know what lifts are legal for ice dancing?”

“Are you asking me if I can read?” Levi asked.

Mina and Marco looked at each other again.

“Knock it off, both of you,” Petra said. “I already have one baby at home, I don’t need two more at the rink.”

Levi crossed his arms. “I am just trying to help you win.”

Armin, red-faced and sweaty, was stifling his laughter in the corner where he stretched. 

“I’m...gonna be right back,” Mina said, getting up to go to the bathroom. 

Levi gestured to Marco to come stand with him by the window. Marco walked up to him, still squeamish in a way he couldn’t help. Levi was like a black hole that the light of Marco’s confidence was no match for. 

“So, what is Mina to you?” Levi asked, his voice low.

“I’m sorry?” 

“What are things like between the two of you?” Levi watched the humble Zamboni putter around the ice. “She is your girlfriend?”

Marco smiled and looked at the floor. He shook his head. “Ah, no, it is not like that at all, she is like my sister, really.”

Levi nodded, still no trace of a smile. “And you do not want her to become your girlfriend?”

Marco shook his head no very subtly, tight-lipped. 

“I think I am catching your drift, as they say,” Levi said. Marco felt a bubble of relief well up in his chest. “Then I have a different question for you.” Levi turned to him. “Is she your ticket to freedom?”

Marco blinked a few times. “I don’t understand what you mean--”

“No, think about this for a minute. Take your time,” Levi said.

Marco sighed. He reached for his foot and stretched out his quadricep. “Well...I mean, I cannot compete without her.”

“Yes. And is there anything else you can only do because of her?” Levi asked. 

Marco glanced around. He saw her come back into the room and sit down on her mat for one last Pilates sequence. His whole career hinged on her right now. He was in this country because of her. And it was her circle of friends he was hoping to get in good with...

“It is just something to think about,” Levi said.   


“I don’t, ah...I don’t really understand why you are asking me this,” Marco said, his voice light.

Levi stroked the faint shadow on his chin. “With every skater that I coach, there has to be a story behind the program. Do you know what I mean? It does not have to be a true story, but it has to have some meaning to the skater. That is what creates the emotions, and that is what creates the better movement.” Marco nodded. Levi was famous for his artistic, passionate style. “Like your tango,” he looked at Marco again. “It is fiction, but it is good fiction. Convincing.” A faint trace of a smile appeared. “So, this is why I am asking you. Because there is something that must be there. The program...it is like it has a core.” He made a fist and pressed it to his heart. He cocked his head slightly. “You are also, like, a really happy guy? Like very optimistic?”

Marco laughed, unable to help it. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Levi bit his lip. “We must find a way for you to use this. Because it is not in the music. So maybe it is not that you are so happy out on the ice in the free dance, but...shit, I am not explaining myself well.” He tapped his foot, glancing at the ground. “You take this feeling, and you...transform it. You are not so smiling all the time, but what you feel is…” he shook his fist, “passion.”

Armin was snickering softly in the background and Marco fought hard to keep a straight face. Marco was beginning to think that it was Levi who wanted to skate to Bring Me To Life, and also that this was a thought he would never dare to vocalize. “I think I understand what you mean,” Marco said.

“So it is this energy that you have.” Levi turned his palm up. “And when you skate with this, for this music...it is like a different color, slightly.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense,” Marco said. He found it kind of poetic. There would be no shutting down his enthusiasm on the ice. It was just impossible, whether Levi was present or not. He could shift the pitch of things, he wasn’t a bad actor, but he could never dim it down. 

“In these next weeks, I want you to think about this core. Think about this story you are telling,” Levi said. He went to check on Mikasa and Armin. Marco had the odd feeling of being adopted by a kooky godfather. 

Marco glanced at his phone again on his way down the stairs. Nothing more from Jean. 

“What’s wrong?” Mina asked, noticing the concerned look on his face. 

“I am worried about Jean,” Marco said. “He said he is sick.”

“Wait, really? What happened?” Mina asked.

“He said it’s something with his nerves. I don’t really know what it is, but he sounds like he is really upset,” Marco said.

“Awww, Jean,” Mina said. “I’ll check on him when I see him.”

“Yeah, will you do this?” Marco asked. 

“Of course.”

“Will you give him a hug for me?” Marco asked.

Mina laughed. “Sure.”

“All right, I will see you later.” Marco hugged Mina and kissed the side of her head. He’d asked her if she was all right with him doing that from time to time, and she said she was. Marco just liked kissing people. 

He walked into the locker room and his face split into a crafty smile.  _ I know what will make Jean feel better _ , he thought. 


End file.
